The Renegade:  The Sounds of Silence
by Sia Later
Summary: Book One of the Sequel to The Rescue.  Did Varric tell Cassandra the whole story?  Rated M for Violence, Language, and more.
1. Chapter 1

_Welcome to the AU of The Rescue. _ _While it's not necessary to have read my previous fic, it may help with a few of the characters that will be in this story, namely, Cullen. As always, I own nothing and I only gain writing XP from this. _

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><p><strong>The Sound Of Silence<strong>  
><em>Chapter 1: Fear and Loathing<em>

Breath rasped in his throat as he fled along the broken remains of the Imperial Highway, keeping to the forests whenever possible. The scent of loam and pine and deadfall filled his gasping lungs. Three days. Three days since the signal fire had been lit and the king's army overwhelmed. Two days since he'd last eaten, finishing the short rations he'd managed to shove in his pockets right before the battle when there was no time to eat and his stomach was churning anyway. One day since the ache in his legs and feet had dulled to a dim throb and then to numbness. But Lothering was on the horizon.

He couldn't stop or he'd start to feel the pain of strained muscles. He could see the town as he crested the hill, his two-handed sword heavy on his back. He didn't know how much time he had, though, before the horde of Darkspawn surged across the Wilds.

Running up the hill to the bridge that would bring him into the town, he stopped short suddenly. Several dead bodies just lay where they'd fallen on the time-roughened stone bridge. His panting brought the stench of their rotted state to his throat and though it wasn't the worst thing he'd ever smelled, he still had to stifle his gag reflex. He covered his nose and mouth as he approached, cautiously. Several had been killed by magic from the burns on their bodies. Fear for his sisters, especially Bethany, turned his mouth dry. Heart pounding for an entirely different reason, he started running again. What had they done?

He ran down the steps to the fields surrounding the village, barely registering the the tents sprawled out in front of the defensive wall. Past the Chantry and the tiny shacks where most of the village artisans lived and plied their trades, he dodged men, women, children, all seeming to be rushing about gathering anything they could carry. Every face he passed drawn in worry and fear. Somehow, he redoubled his pace, heading for the family farm.

"Carver!" He skidded to a halt, collapsing forward slightly, his hands on his knees, his leg muscles screaming. He sucked in air, unable to raise his head for a moment. "Carver?" At the more tentative query he raised his head and generous hips, a slim waist and a torn and dirty skirt filled his view. He took a deeper breath and raise his head higher. Pale cleavage, a generous expanse of female flesh, desperately rising and falling in time with his own frantic breathing met his eyes.

"Peaches?" He managed to gasp out before she flung herself into his arms so hard he was forced to catch her and brace himself. She managed to wriggle until she could plant her lips on his, but he pushed her gently away, still unable to catch his breath. He set her on her feet and held her at arms length. "Peaches! Listen to me! Get your family and get out of here. The darkspawn are coming. Ostagar fell!"

"Oh, Carver!" She looked up at him, blue eyes wide. "I - I saw you and - I thought you were dead!" She clutched at one of his hands with both of hers and pressed his palm flat to her chest, right between her breasts. "You have to come with me! Carver, please, you have to protect me!"

Staring at where his hand had been placed, he shook his head to clear it. Her scent, _flowers and sweat, hay and earth, exertion and passion and_-. "I'll find you. I have to help my family. Go! Help yours!" With a last longing look, the girl turned and fled.

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><p>Margaret put her hands on her hips and stared incredulously at her mother. "Mother, you cannot take Father's trunk. How many times did you and he have to go on the run when we were kids? Did you forget how to pack?" The small two bedroom house was a wreck with their belongings strewn all over the few pieces of furniture in order to help the three women better sort what they absolutely needed to carry that much faster.<p>

Leandra glared at her oldest daughter. "Your father was alive then and that was all I needed! This is all I have, now!" Margaret glared right back at her mother, biting off a retort. _What? _We're_ not enough of a reminder?_

"Mother," Bethany's kind voice intruded. _Always the peacemaker. _"We can't carry the trunk, itself. What if we took the most important things with us in our packs? And Margaret can take Father's staff." Margaret wrinkled her nose at the prospect. It was a powerful weapon, but the stylized naked woman on the top - especially since it had been carved by their father and lovingly painted a gaudy gold - had always made her uncomfortable. But, if it would get them all moving sooner...

"Fine. I'll take it and Father's old mage robe. Maybe we can make it fit one of us as we go." Quickly, Margaret threw the lid open and began sorting out their father's belongings. His old robes were tied into a bundle she could carry at the bottom of her pack to until they could fix them. His staff joined hers across her back. Bethany found a small pouch at the bottom, under a sword and shield from who knew where, that contained several pieces of jewelry. Margaret held out her pack to put it in, they'd go through it later. Now wasn't the time.

"What about Carver's things?" Bethany asked, hope plain in her large brown eyes. Margaret sighed. _I guess if we don't find him, we can sell the bigger things. If we have to._Margaret wanted the chance to mourn her brother, but had steeled herself against his survival when that tall, blond warrior claiming to be a Grey Warden survivor from Ostagar had stumbled into the Chantry with a dark haired elf mage in tow. Who somehow still seemed to do all their talking. Margaret hadn't run into a lot of elves in her time in Lothering, with it's small Alienage, and in the rural areas where they'd lived before, elves were rare. The Hawkes never had coin to hire servants or field hands. It just wasn't usually the tiny female with the staff on her back, but the large human male that negotiated with Revered Mothers.

The sound of the door slamming against the wall and a male voice shouting, "Mother!" made all three women jump where they stood. Instinctively, Margaret had her hand behind her back with a fireball ready to go before she even registered that the voice was familiar. Only one male's voice would yell like that. It took her a moment to calm the surge of adrenaline and snuff the fireball, but in the meantime, Bethany and their mother had both rushed to greet the very tall warrior that was Bethany's twin. Margaret straightened up from her defensive semi-crouch, light headed in relief, and walked to greet her brother, putting what she hoped was a welcoming smile on her face, the adrenaline surging through her veins making politeness difficult. "Carver. Glad to see the rumors of your demise were premature." _Wait, that didn't sound remotely like I'd wanted it to._

His brows drew down and his eyes narrowed. _Well, that didn't take long._"What were you going to do, leave without me?"

Bethany and Mother stepped away from Carver as he stepped closer to Margaret. Unflinchingly she met his eyes. "Yes. As a matter of fact, I was going to evacuate our mother and sister ahead of the darkspawn horde."

He blinked at Margaret. "How did you-?" She rolled her eyes and turned to finish packing.

"There were Grey Wardens." Bethany's sweeter voice spoke up. "Sister and I ran into one of them at the Chantry."

"Grey Wardens! They... they were supposed to have all died in the first wave!" Margaret turned at the sound of the surprise in his voice.

She shook her head at her brother's astonishment. "Doesn't matter, they're long gone now. Heard they're trying to raise an army. Join them if you want. I need to get Mother and Bethany to safety."

"Why, by Andraste's ass, do you think I _ran here_from Ostagar in the first place, sister?"

"Carver! Language!"

"Sorry, Mother."

"Fine, Carver. Bethany, hand him the weapons and that shield and all the stuff we gathered for him if we ran into him on the road." Margaret didn't look up as she shoved the last of the magically enhanced jewels down deep toward the bottom of her pack, under her father's mage robes. She'd also wrapped them in her small clothes, hoping a brigand wouldn't be smart enough, or would be too squeamish, to find them. As soon as Carver got his gear settled, it was time to leave Lothering.

"So, you weren't going to leave me?" he asked, slinging the shield across his back.

"Why, by the Maker's hairy arse, would I do that?" Margaret demanded as she snapped her fingers for Hopper, her mabari, to get off his lazy backside and follow her.

"Margaret!"

"Sorry, Mother."

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><p>The family joined the exodus of refugees. The Revered Mother led her flock of widows and orphans, flanked by almost every Templar that had been in the Chantry. While Margaret had spent most of her life fleeing the Templars, and tended to view them with a wary eye, Ser Bryant was a sensible one. He took in hers and Bethany's staves with a glance and a raised eyebrow, then turned a blind eye. Working with a mage, apparently, even two apostates, was preferable to the Darkspawn. One of the older boys in the center of the ring of defenders, regaled his fellow children with the tale of how "the Grey Warden gave me a silver coin straight out of her own purse!" Margaret caught Bethany's eye and they both grinned at that.<p>

Catching Carver's attention where he stood scanning the refugees with a worried expression on his face, she jerked her head to the rear of the column of refugees. "With the Templars in the middle, the rear's undefended. We'll likely get hit from behind, wouldn't you think, Brother?"

Carver wiped sweat out of his eyes and reluctantly pulled his eyes away from their search. _Is he actually looking for that brainless Peaches at a time like this? You're supposed to think with the bigger head, Brother Dear._The heat of the blistering sun high over head wasn't abated by the columns of smoke that trailed upwards from the horizon behind them. He glanced backward. "You're right. We're sitting ducks."

"Let me talk to Ser Bryant. It'll do us no good to take rear guard if there's no way to warn anyone to run."

Carver nodded. "Make it a quick conversation, Sister. There's no time for flirting."

She sniffed and glared up at him. "I do not flirt with Templars."

"Of course not."

Margaret resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her younger brother as she turned to find Ser Bryant again. _See? I am adult enough to let him have the last word. I may have to point that out to him later._"Ser Bryant?"

"Hawke?" The tall, dark haired man stepped out of the formation, his tone polite. _Courteous, even to a known apostate. _"How can I help you?"

"Actually, I was going to offer to help you." He politely inclined his head, waiting for her to continue. She cleared her throat, fear (_Andraste's ass! I'm talking to a bloody Templar!_) welled up inside her and constricted her throat.

"Um, right. Well, we're awfully strung out here, Ser Bryant. My brother and I, we are going to take up the rear guard and keep a watch out for any advance scouts looking for us. How shall I signal you if we find trouble?" She clasped her hands in front of her stomach to keep herself from doing anything stupid with her fingers.

The Templar eyed her staff where it stood above her head, his eyes widened and his cheeks turned red, probably seeing the top of her second staff. "I suppose you and your brother are used to... working together?"

"Yes, Ser."

He wrenched his eyes back to meet hers and took his helmet off to run his gauntleted hand through his damp, sweaty hair. Before he could respond, though, the Revered Mother's voice sounded from behind them. "Ser Bryant, I certainly hope you're not about to refuse this girl's help just because she's an apostate?"

"Your Grace!" The Templar bowed. "I was actually about to suggest she signal with her staff as we don't have the men to spare for messenger duties. Three bursts into the air?" Margaret felt her stomach untwist at the Templar's word. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

The Revered Mother turned her tired gaze to Margaret and lifted her hand with a questioning look. Obediently, Margaret knelt on one knee with her head bowed.

"Blessed are they who stand before  
>The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.<br>Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just."

Margaret glanced up at the Revered Mother's odd choice for a benediction and briefly wondered if it was because of her apostate status. The old woman motioned for her to rise. "Maker go with you and Andraste watch over you, child."

Margaret bowed her head in thanks and nodded once at Ser Bryant. As she turned to walk away she heard the Templar ask, "Reverence, are you sure we can trust an apostate to walk rear guard?"

The Revered Mother's voice didn't bother to hide her annoyance. "These are her friends and family, too, Ser Bryant. She and her brother risk much. Besides, there is something about that girl..." the sentence trailed off as Margaret got too far away to hear them over the creak of wagon wheels, the lowing of oxen and the shrieks of children chasing each other through the caravan. She shook her head and dodged a little girl squealing and giggling as she ran from a boy who bore a strong resemblance to her.

Margaret found her brother and sister waiting for her at the rear of the column. While she expected Bethany, their mother's appearance was a surprise. "Mother, you should be further up in the column where the Templars can protect you."

"Thank you, sister. I kept telling her that." Carver crossed his arms and glared at their sole parent.

"Nonsense. I am not going to hide behind the Templar's skirts while my children risk their lives for us all."

It took a monumental effort of will, but Margaret did not roll her eyes at her mother. She turned to Bethany, though, and said, "And you! You shouldn't be back here either!"

The younger woman smiled, her warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sister, your healing magic has always been rubbish. You and Carver will need me to keep you alive if worse comes to worst." Margaret met Carver's gaze. He rolled his eyes and threw up his hands dramatically as he walked away muttering about impossible women.

Glancing from her mother to her baby sister, Margaret frowned. "I can't keep either of you from doing this, can I?" They both shook their heads. "Fine. Mother try to stay back and out of the way. You distracting us will get one of us killed. Beth, do not charge up to be with us. Stay by mother. I'd leave Hopper with you for protection, but I think Carver and I are going to need him. After all, the more Darkspawn we kill, the less make it through to you and to the refugees."

They glanced at each other. Leandra yanked Margaret off-balance and pulled her into a hug. "Be careful, Margaret. You are too much like your father." Margaret kissed her cheek in reply.

Bethany hugged her, too, and whispered, "Don't do anything stupid, big sister."

Margaret grinned. "Of course not! I like my hide in one piece, Beth!"

The four stepped out of the streaming line of refugees and waited for the column to pass by. The town's elves brought up the rear and Margaret found herself pitying them even more than the orphans. Doomed to squalor, the elves were considered the most expendable and had been the last to be evacuated. She shook her head and met Bethany's eyes, wide with compassion. There was nothing they could do, though. Just defend them from the Darkspawn.

Once the column passed, Margaret led her brother and Hopper to the end and made certain they were several yards away from Bethany and Leandra, but not so far that Beth would have trouble healing them if it came down to it. "Try not to get their blood on you, sister," Carver advised.

She glanced up at her brother. "That'll be a bit difficult, won't it?"

He frowned at her, "I'm serious. It's poison. It'll turn you into a … a..."

"A what?"

"I don't know, they didn't tell us. But the Grey Wardens gave us all pitying looks."

"Lovely." She cleared her throat. "Thanks for agreeing to help me help the villagers, Carver."

He shrugged. "They aren't all complete wastes of skin, Margaret. Besides, I want to make sure they get away, too."

"'They' wouldn't happen to include a busty farmer's daughter by the name of 'Peaches,' would they?"

"Shut up."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

_Pigtails and Skinned Knees_

It didn't take long for the advance scouts to find them. The growls and grunts were getting louder as the 'spawn approached. Margaret sent her prearranged signal up into the sky and prayed that Bryant was paying attention. "We're going to have to lead them off, Carver. There's too many. They have to believe we're all the refugees." She swallowed around her pounding heart and gripped her staff tighter to still her trembling fingers

Carver looked around for a moment, his expression somewhat slack jawed in hopelessness. "Exactly how do we pretend to be fifty more people, Sister?"

Margaret cleared her throat, fear making her mouth dry and her stomach twist. "We're going to have to ask Mother and Beth for help."

"No." He shook his head vehemently. "We leave them with the refugees, if we must. You and I will deal with these monsters."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Brother. But Mother and Beth won't let themselves be separated from us, even for their own good."

"We don't really have time to argue, Sister." Hopper added his growl to Carver's reminder.

She could see movement through the trees. "You're right, let's go." They were out of time to discuss what they needed to do, he was right in that. But Mother and Beth wouldn't be safe separated from them for long. Beth would be taken by the Templars in no time.

"Mark this day on the calendar! Margaret The Great actually agreed with her little brother!"

"Do shut up." Margaret snapped her fingers at Hopper. When the mabari looked up at her, she told him, "Go find Mother and Bethany. Hurry." Carver made a disgusted noise in his throat as she ignored his suggestion. With a single woof, Hopper lived up to his name and bounded away. "C'mon, we'll have to make one hell of a distraction." She glanced around searching for something they could use to draw the scouts away from the refugees or at least a place where she and Carver could hold them off as long as possible.

The valley they'd entered had already been hit by the Blight. The rocks were darkened and blasted and the soil sandy and pale as if all the good dark earth had been scrubbed off it. Margaret thought briefly of the farms in Lothering and the animals that now trailed the refugees. They were better off there than left for the darkspawn. At least until the refugees got hungry. "Look, there!" She pointed to a narrow path through which they could lead the scouts and hold them off the refugees for a while. Carver nodded and headed for the gap, drawing his massive sword.

Margaret gave one last look around, trying to see if Hopper had succeeded in bringing her sister and mother. "Margaret!" She turned to look at Carver. "Are you planning on standing there to shake their hands?"

"Ugh. Shut up." She ran to join him at the mouth of the gully. Margaret stood behind Carver, her staff out and ready, every muscle tensed and waiting. The sound of claws scrabbling on the hard-packed dirt and rock behind her had her staff up and ready, a spell on her lips. Hopper came bounding around the outcrop and Margaret released the breath she'd been holding. Bethany picked her careful way across the rocks behind the exuberant mabari with their mother following behind, just as carefully, her skirt gathered primly in one hand.

"Bethany, stay back. Keep Mother safe. Hopper, stay with them." The flame-haired mage turned back to stand shoulder to shoulder with her younger brother. He swiped at the sweat trickling down his forehead with the back of his hand. As she moved to do the same, a sudden thought struck her, making her blood run to ice. iIf they could get up here behind us, then so could.../i She spun slowly, her eyes searching every rock and shadow. She felt Carver turn to look at her in concern, and Beth pick up on her tension and nervously look from her to the surrounding rocks. "Oh, Maker, no," Margaret breathed. "Behind us! Run! Up the hill! Run, now!"

True to her word, she grabbed her mother's arm as she passed and dragged the other woman behind her up the hill. "Run faster, Sister!" Carver's voice, tight with strain urged her onward. Something jumped out at her and without thinking, she flung her hand up and threw the first spell she'd ever learned at the toothily grinning monstrosity that sprang out at her. It froze and fell over, encased in ice.

"Margaret!" Her mother yelled. The mage twisted and spun her staff up, charged energy crackling down the length to send another, shorter darkspawn twitching to the ground in its death throes. Hopper bounded over and hamstrung another attempting to sneak down from the rocks and when it fell, the mabari ripped its throat out for good measure.

"Run!" Caver shouted. He stormed past, Bethany's small hand crushed in his, as he dragged her after him. Margaret, for once, agreed with her brother. Her mother raced after her twins. Margaret glanced behind her to see that their distraction had apparently worked far too well in leading the bulk of the scouts away from the refugees. She turned and sprinted, Hopper racing ahead to take point as she'd trained him in their hunting forays.

They ran, engaging the ravening spawn as often as they were forced to. Bethany stayed by their mother, and Margaret often felt the cold, icy, warm, tingling wash of her sister's healing spell when one of the monsters got in a lucky hit. She and Carver fought like they hadn't in a very long time. Not since their father had begun training them to fight together as children. She ducked and threw a spell and he was there to finish off the attacking monster with a swing of his blade. Or, he'd have one nearly done and a spell from her would kill it, so he could move on to another. Hopper worried the ranks, weakening individual spawn to make them easier to take down. Backs were watched, weak spots were covered. And over all, Bethany was there, healing both of them as long as her mana held.

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><p>Carver had forgotten the last time he'd slept or ate. The world was narrowed down to his blade, the dog and his sisters and mother. His muscles ached from the repetitive impact of metal against bone and sinew and the palms of his hands were on fire - he could feel new blisters forming with each swing. They finally broke free, Bethany and Mother trailing as he and Margaret raced ahead to make sure the path was clear. "Where are we going?" Beth's voice brought him up short and he turned to look at his twin, glad for the short rest to suck air into his lungs, trying not to sway in place.<p>

"Away from the Darkspawn. Where else?" He heard Margaret stop and turn back to them.

"And then where? We can't just wander, aimlessly. That's a good way to find more darkspawn." Carver failed at keeping the irritation out of his voice, but he was too tired to be diplomatic at this point. _Not that diplomacy was ever useful with Margaret_.

"Wherever we go, we stick together. No matter what." Carver met his elder sister's eyes at her declaration, the setting sun hitting them just right and making them glow a rather eerie bright green. _I hope you're right, Sister, dear._

Mother cleared her throat. "Kirkwall. We can go to Kirkwall."

Carver felt his stomach drop into his boots with everything he'd ever heard about Kirkwall serving in the King's army. He glanced at Bethany and was about to object when Margaret beat him to it. "Kirkwall! You want to take Beth and me to the one city besides Val Royeaux where mages are more hunted than …. wyvern at an Orlesian Tea Party?" He turned the short laugh into a cough. Sometimes Margaret's comparisons were funny, but the absurd image (a wyvern in a dress seated at a table drinking tea out of an impossibly small cup) that just popped into his head could only be the result of too little sleep and no food.

Bethany frowned. "There're a lot of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother." _Templars. Right. Avoid Templars. Father kneeling down in front of him, handing him his first blade with ceremony and gravity. "It's your job to protect your sisters, Carver. The Templars - you remember what those are, don't you?"_

_"Yes, Father." Small-Carver cleared his throat, trying to sound grown-up. "They're bad men who want to take Margaret and Beth away."_

_A kind smile creased a round face that looked far too much like his older sister's. "Well, not all of them are bad, but they all do want to take them away from us." The green eyes crinkled at the corners. "Now, are you up to the challenge of defending your sisters?"_

_He remembered squaring his small shoulders and holding that short sword close to his chest. "Yes, Father."_

Leandra looked from one daughter to the other. Carver shook his head, trying to focus. This was the stupidest idea he'd ever heard, but if it's what Mother wanted... "I know it's dangerous. But we have family there. An estate."

Carver shrugged when Bethany looked at him questioningly. This would have to be up to her and Margaret. Kirkwall wouldn't be a danger to ihim/i, after all. He felt his lips pull back as Margaret looked at their sister and sighed. "Then we head for Gwaren. We'll need to take ship, there." _Why did she always give in to Mother, but when he was alive she fought with Father every second of the day?_

_"No, Father! I will not hide in the barn like some scurrying rat! The Templars know you have two daughters, if we're both missing, they'll be even more suspicious!"_

_"Margaret, you will do as I say!"_

"_Not when you're wrong I won't!" They'd stood there glaring at each other, the tension in the room thick. Leandra wrung her hands uselessly, Bethany's lips quivered as they always did when the two most stubborn people he'd ever known butted heads. Even at the age of twelve, Margaret had a mind of her own._

The warrior shook his head, again, attempting to refocus on the immediate moment, and drew his blade, resuming point. "If we survive that long. I'll just be happy to get out of here."

If he ever saw another darkspawn again, it would be too soon. They stank. They hit harder than Sergeant Mackenna in the sparring ring. Despite his getting a head start on her, Margaret soon passed him up and took point. He rolled his eyes at her competitiveness, but deep in the corners of his mind he never wanted to acknowledge, he was glad she was there. Maybe if the mages had been allowed to fight like his sister could, they wouldn't have gotten overwhelmed at Ostagar and wouldn't have needed Teryn Loghain and that stupid signal fire. _And maybe the Grey Wardens would still be alive._

_The interminable lecture on Darkspawn had already gone on forever. What could be so hard about killing monsters? You stick the pointy end of the sword in their gut and they died. Of course, he'd been naive, not that he'd know that for another day or so. So, bored, he'd let his attention wander and he spotted one of the odder sights he'd seen in the camp that day. A petite elven girl, her ears bared by a ponytail, led big blond warrior up the ramp to the top of the wall to look out over the valley. She'd gestured, her small hands waving gracefully as she talked, the man next to her nodding, asking the occasional question and interjecting his own opinion. Carver couldn't hear what they were saying, but body language was easy to interpret. Odder still, was the staff she wore openly on her back. The ornate carving at the top marked it to his more experienced eyes as something beyond the quarterstaff a farmer would wear. Was the big guy a Templar? Then he caught the symbol embossed on the warrior's shield. A griffon rampant. Grey Wardens_.

_The Sergeant at that time chose to single him out. "Private Hawke! Since you apparently know all there is to know about killing Darkspawn..."_

Another small break in the trail where it widened briefly, but instead of the respite the last wider space had been, this one was overrun with more 'spawn. They were circling a man and a woman who stood back to back, weapons out and ready. He glanced at Margaret and his stomach sank into his boots. _She's going to do something stupid._

She launched herself with a yell at the crowd surrounding the pair. "Andraste's knickers, Mags!" he swore, falling back on his childhood knickname for her. He and the mabari hound caught up with her just as her outflung spell managed to incinerate a half dozen of the mob. _When did she learn that?_ And then there was no time to worry about his sister's skills, the darkspawn turned to attack them.

When he was finally able to wrench his heavy blade from the last of the twitching, stinking corpses, he turned to find his sister facing down - was that a _templar? Bloody hell!_ "Apostate! Keep your distance!" The man's eyes darted from Bethany to Margaret. Carver rolled his eyes and wondered if they'd have to kill the very people they'd just rescued.

Bethany let out a short laugh. "Well. The Maker has a sense of humor. Darkspawn - and a templar. I thought they all abandoned Lothering to flee with the refugees?"

The Templar didn't sound very healthy, however. OK, maybe it won't be too hard of a fight. "The spawn are clear in their intent, but the mage is always an unknown." He swayed slightly and his hand went to his stomach, his voice became strained. "The order dictates..."

The red-haired woman's softly interrupted, "Wesley..."

"Those women are apostates." Carver tightened his grip on his blade. He saw his older sister's hand slowly start reaching behind her for her staff. "The Order dictates..."

"Dear, they saved us," the woman interrupted again. Whoever she was, Carver hoped she could talk the Templar down. "The Maker understands."

The Templar's shoulders slumped and he nodded and backed away. "Of course." Carver tried not to be too obvious in letting out the breath he'd been holding. She introduced herself as Aveline Vallen and the Templar was Ser Wesley. Carver ignored most of the conversation, trying to get his fatigue-sodden brain to pay attention to their surroundings, until... "-North is cut off. We barely escaped the main body of the horde."

Frustration and fear surged through him. "Then - We're trapped! The Wilds are to the South! That's no way out!" Mother let out a sob behind him.

The sound seemed to make Margaret's jaw set. "Then we have no choice. The darkspawn have us fenced in. We go South." The sound he'd been hearing most of the afternoon finally made sense and he turned to face north. He rushed to the side of the path for a better view. Flames shot high into the air, sending billowing plumes of smoke skyward, reaching for the hazy sun. _Maker. Peaches! The refugees!_ He hoped Ser Bryant got them around that, or they'd be walking right into a warzone. He met his mother's horrified eyes and they both turned to follow Margaret.

They climbed a short hill and reached a break in the craggy rocks again. But no sooner had they paused to catch their breath, then the ground began to shake beneath their feet. Margaret stumbled into him and he sat her on her feet as Bethany led their mother to what looked like a safe spot. _Good idea, Beth. Get her out of the way. This looks like a wonderful place for an ambush. And not in our favor_. He stumbled, the ground seeming to buck under his feet. _What in the Void is making the ground shake?_ He bounced off Margaret and into the red-haired warrior woman who pushed him back onto his feet.

The biggest, ugliest darkspawn - _that has to be what that is, nothing normal could ever look like that_ - with two-foot horns sprouting out of either side of its head, it's massive gray-ish purple chest bare to the hips where a scrap of rough fur was mercifully belted across its waist came charging over the rise at them. Spittle flew from its jaws as it roared in defiance. To his left, he heard Margaret start a litany of cuss words that would have made the most hardened sergeant in the King's Army blush scarlet. Maker's breath, what is that thing?

The world slowed to a crawl, Carver couldn't seem to make his arms move fast enough to bring his sword up to charge. Bethany turned - _turn faster, run, Bethany!_ - her eyes widening at the monster bearing down on her and their mother. Margaret's staff spun, but the energy that erupted from the end flew as if the air was trying to hold it back. "Maker, give me strength!" Bethany cried as she shoved their mother back, the older woman falling onto her rear end with a sharp cry as the young mage gathered her strength for a spell.

Wesley was there, suddenly, the ill Templar. Knocking his twin out of the way. Aveline yelled her husband's name, rushing toward him, but she was too late. And then the world came back into focus as the monster wrapped one horrid paw around the Templar's waist and scooped him up like a rag doll. And like a child with a toy, it slammed the warrior's body into the ground repeatedly, each time with a more sickening crunching sound than the last, Wesley's broken body no longer fighting the thing's grip. Carver, startled at the sacrifice, a Templar, giving his life for a mage, felt the world narrow down to just himself and that … that _thing_ as rage stronger than anything he'd ever felt before filled him, twisted his stomach and pumped fire though his veins. His fatigue vanished and he leaped at the massive darkspawn, bringing his sword up to avenge the broken man.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**:  
><em>Missing a Limb<em>

Margaret Hawke fell to her knees next to Aveline's husband. The stinking monster's corpse that killed him lay a few feet away. It had smelled awful while attacking them, and death hardly improved that condition. The Templar's face stared up at the sky sightlessly, his nose and lips bloodied, a cheekbone shattered. Both arms were broken where the warrior had tried to cushion his head against the ground, but the force of the attack had rendered it a futile gesture. With shaking fingers she reached out to close the man's eyes.

She turned to look at her sister who met her eyes in shock. A _Templar_ gave his life for an Apostate. Their mother had thrown her arms around the young woman and was sobbing dramatically into Bethany's hair. Carver still stood stunned, darkspawn blood dripping from his sword. Aveline... the tall woman's jaw clenched and unclenched. Hawke did the only thing, she could think to do. She offered her hand to the tall fighter. Aveline moved her agonized gaze to Hawke and yanked the mage to her feet, hugging her. Hawke hung on, sparing a prayer to the Maker for his mercy and Andraste for her intercession.

_Tucking her baby sister into bed after telling her a story about princes and princesses and tall towers, Margaret brushed a lock of dark hair off the girl's forehead. Sleepily, the five-year-old girl snuggled further into her blankets and whispered, "Love you, Mags."_

_Playing hide and seek after the chores and lessons were done for the day, Margaret chased Bethany back to the home "base," the front door. Beth looked back, her mouth open in laughter, her hair streaming behind her, her cheeks flushed in the cool autumn air._

_There was a doll they both wanted. It had been given to Margaret with the expectation that she share, but Beth had hogged it all day. Both had one arm and were tugging it between them, yelling at each other. "Mine!" Margaret felt a rush of heat - to this day, she wasn't sure if she did it, or if Bethany had - and the doll burst into flames._

Mother's punishment had been swift. Father's had been severe. Mother's had centered around the destruction of the doll. Father had been more concerned with the uncontrolled surge of magic. Mother sent them to bed without supper. Father had them summon fire repeatedly until they were leaning on each other and panting in exhaustion. It had been a very long time until either of them could light a candle without flinching.

And now... Bethany still lived because of a Templar's sacrifice. Margaret clung to the man's widow.

Aveline Stepped away and dried her tears. She cleared her throat and spoke the words. "Ashes we were, and ashes we become. Maker, give my husband a place at your side. Let us take comfort in the peace he has found in eternity."

Margaret stared down at the ground, her mother and Beth stood up and joined them at the Templar's side. "We will never forget you, Ser Wesley."

Margaret, loathe to drag Aveline away from mourning, but there were still darkspawn coming, stood and put her hand on the new widow's shoulder. "Our lives are more valuable to him than our prayers. We should go."

"I - we can't leave him like this!" Moving Aveline was almost like moving a wall.

"Aveline! We cannot stay here!" Carver shouted, completely ignoring all tact. "For once I agree with Maggie. We have to go! Now!"

"Oh, no!" Bethany cried. "We're too late." Margaret turned to the sound of her sister unlimbering her staff. Aveline turned and drew her sword, waking up from her grief. Bethany nodded in mother's direction. "Go, I'll watch after her, and I'll stay out of the way of the really big ones this time."

Numb, Hawke nodded as she also unlimbered her staff. Maker, how she hated Darkspawn. They kept coming. Incessantly and constantly. Margaret and her small band were beaten back to the corner of the clearing, Margaret in between the two warriors, Aveline and Carver cutting down all that made it past her spells, Hopper leaping from foe to foe, putting his teeth and claws to good use.

But it still wasn't enough. Margaret was breathing heavy, every swing of her staff getting slower, more difficult. Carver's and Aveline's breathing sounded labored as well, and Hopper was barely able to close his mouth long enough to bite the darkspawn, he was panting so much. _I'm going to need to dose him with andraste's grace if we get out of this, or he'll get sick. _She stabbed a taller 'spawn through the chest with the end of her staff.

"There's no end to them!" Carver panted.

"Just keep fighting!" Aveline yelled.

A low, earth-rumbling growl made the monsters pause and look up. Margaret watched in confusion as they seemed to back up and start running the other direction. Hopper, too tired to even give chase, dropped onto his haunches with a whine as the humans looked up, following the ominous roaring overhead. Margaret felt her exhausted limbs freeze in terror at the sight of the creature that shouldn't exist swooping down from above to ignite and rend the darkspawn.

And then, impossibly, it landed. And turned into an older, horned woman who strutted toward them as if she were one of the slatterns that haunted Dane's Refuge. Unnecessarily, Carver muttered, "Be careful, sister. I wouldn't want her to change back into a dragon and decide we would be good for dessert."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Duly noted, brother."

* * *

><p>All in all, being rescued by a dragon was overshadowed by Wesley's sacrifice. Carver glared at the old woman. With that much magic at her disposal, surely the old witch could have arrived sooner? The old woman did take one look at the corpse and laugh, though. A great long, laugh. Margaret and Carver both had to hold Aveline back. "What is so funny?"<p>

"Why... A Templar sacrificing himself for an Apostate? When that Templar is already dying of the taint? Well, it seems your Maker has a sense of humor after all!" Aveline stopped struggling after that.

She asked one question, "How do you know? That he was dying, I mean. Surely there was something that -"

"Oh ho! No, the only thing that could have been done died at Ostagar. And the only two left of that Order are far beyond your reach, and have far bigger concerns right now." She looked directly at Margaret. "And I think that this little wrinkle, right here... has just caused several giant ripples in the pond. It will be very interesting to see what happens when they reach the shore."

The witch, however, was true to her word; though after burning Wesley's body on an impromptu pyre, the march to Gwaren was solemn. Carver lay awake almost every night under the stars staring up wondering at the Maker's sense of humor. A Templar had let his sister stay with them.

Aveline mourned. Quietly. That was to be expected. He could tell in the little while he'd known them, she'd loved her husband. He heard her tell Margaret one night that, "It's the constant feeling of having lost or forgotten something important. As if I've set something down, and I can't remember what, or where, and then it'll hit me all over again. Or I'll remember something, or want to tell him something and only see you or your brother." Margaret had nodded and murmured something about feeling similarly when their father died.

Carver, did his best, however, to just stay near Beth as much as possible. He knew how close he'd come to losing his twin. But he held his tongue since their mother seemed to be doing her best to make sure Margaret knew it was her fault Wesley had died, that Aveline was now a widow. His sister hadn't spoken to anyone but Aveline since the Ogre except to pester the witch for magic lessons. She ignored her brother and sister and avoided her mother's haranguing. Not that Carver could blame her.

"I- I'm sorry for your husband," Carver did manage to stammer out, one night over the campfire.

"And I for your father."

And that was all that could be said on the subject.

Two days from Gwaren, though, Leandra and Margaret, the anger and resentment and blame boiled over. He missed what offhand comment had started it, but the two of them went on the offensive immediately. "How dare you blame me, mother! I did everything I could!"

"You didn't do enough! You're the eldest! It's your responsibility to lead! How could you!"

"If you'd stayed back like you were told, she wouldn't have had to defend you! And then Wesley wouldn't have had to defend her!" Margaret's teeth were clenched and he caught the scent of singed ozone which meant she was doing her best to reign in her temper before it sent her magic spiraling out of control.

"If you were looking out for her, she'd -!" Leandra clamped her hands over her mouth.

"I'd what, mother? Still be here?" Beth stepped into the middle of their argument, plainly tired of the constant sniping. "Margaret had nothing to do with what happened. Do not trample on Aveline's grief by shouting at Margaret about something her husband chose to do!"

"Thank you, Beth." Margaret's voice cracked. In that brief moment, Carver actually hated their mother. He dropped the kindling loudly and all three women turned to him.

"I think Beth has a point."

With last glare at Leandra, Margaret grabbed her cloak and stormed to the edge of the firelight, facing outward. "I take first watch."

He turned to Leandra. "Mother?"

Leandra's only response was to burst into tears and throw herself onto the sleeping pallet she'd made from their father's cloak. Carver rolled his eyes. Aveline sighed and bent to straighten up from the sparse meal of hard cheese and harder bread they'd managed to choke down. "I was wondering how much longer they'd keep all that in," the red head remarked.

"It doesn't take long for Mother and Margaret to pick a fight with one another." He sighed. He was almost used to being outnumbered.

Beth sat down next to Aveline. "Mother's never really happy with much Mags does. I've never really been able to figure out why." She dropped her voice. "In the morning, the Blight will be Mags' fault."

Aveline shook her head. "That's not good."

"No, but that's mother and Margaret," Carver shrugged. He looked around, "Where did the witch go?"

Aveline added kindling to the small fire and shrugged. "She mentioned making sure the next two days were uneventful and then took off. Hope that means she's decided she's tired of our company."

"Somehow, I doubt that."

* * *

><p>"I'm worried you and Aveline will get arrested for desertion, Carver." Margaret ran her fingers through her short hair. She had that look on her face that meant she was frustrated and might start hitting things. Carver was far too familiar with that look.<p>

"You let me and Aveline worry about me and Aveline, Sister. You're going to have enough trouble trying to convince a ship captain that Hopper won't muck up his nice ship. And keeping you and Beth away from curious Templars." Carver leaned against the external wall of the shelter they were staying in. There were no rooms in the inns left, so the mayor of Gwaren, left to run things in the Teryn's absence, had set up temporary shelters for the refugees. They were crowded and stinking and the furthest thing from private as possible. That didn't really stop some of the activities he'd heard last night, though. From the circles under his sister's eyes, she hadn't slept much either.

"Guess we'll just have to find a Fereldan ship captain."

Carver scowled. "We should have talked the witch into getting us to Kirkwall direct. Save us having to scrounge for a ship."

"Cheer up, Brother. Maybe you can find a nice farm girl to settle down with and raise a dozen brats. Just make sure she's not the kind to like public romps in refugee shelters." Margaret's green eyes were agate hard. _What in the Maker's name have I done to piss her off this time? Andraste's ass. Where did Beth run off too? She can interpret Margaret-speak._

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nevermind. I'm going to walk Hopper." She snapped her fingers and strode away as the dog bounded after her.

Aveline's voice sounded behind him. "I think she thinks that was you last night."

Carver snorted. "She has a high opinion of my charm, then, to land a tumble within a night of arriving."

One straight red eyebrow merely canted upward. "She mentioned 'peaches.' Not sure what that has to do with anything."

Carver felt the heat start in his neck and make its way to the top of his head. "Maker save me from meddling sisters! No, it wasn't me!" He looked away, trying to calm his blush. "But I was far too close to the tit who was. Bastard and his wench kept me awake, too."

"Hmm. Right. Perhaps you should tell Hawke that."

"I don't know. Maybe." He waved in her general direction and stormed away. He wasn't sure where he was going to go, just away from his family and Aveline for a while. Gwaren, unfortunately, wasn't a large town. It didn't take him long to run into his sister at the docks, her short red hair standing away from her scalp in sweaty streaks, her pale cheeks flushed. "What in Andraste's name happened to you?"

"Shut up."

"I will not. What did you do?"

She glared up at him. "They tried to recruit me for the army. They were also asking about you and Beth and Aveline. Apparently, our entrance to the city didn't go unnoticed."

"You haven't answered my question."

"I did what I had to do, Brother. Drop it." She pushed past him and he grabbed her upper arm. _What if they reported her or Beth to the Templars?_

She wrenched her arm out of his grasp. "I didn't use magic." His eyes widened. "And I didn't fuck them either."

"I wasn't -"

She gave him the same irritating wave he'd just given Aveline and stormed off. _We'd better find a ship soon_.

"Dammit, Maggie, wait!"

She stopped and turned. "What? I can't believe you'd... you'd do that so soon after we got here..." She blinked and looked away, her face turning redder.

He felt like steam was going to come boiling out of his ears, his heart was pounding so much in anger at her. "I. Didn't. But it's clear you've made up your mind about it. I'm not going to bother changing it." He crossed his arms and glared at her. "Did you at least find a boat?"

"No."

"Do you want my help?" She looked up at him and for a moment he was five and she was twelve and he was following her around trying to help her with her chores, carrying a too-big pile of kindling because Maggie had asked him to because she was carrying an even bigger pile of laundry.

She let out a breath and her shoulders slumped. "I'd like that."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: **

_Hurry Up and Wait_

It had taken all of their gold, her abilities to charm people, a lot of Bethany's smiles, and a bit of Carver's bullying to finally get on a ship bound for Kirkwall. Of course, now they were stuck in a hold for two weeks in storm season with about a hundred others in their same situation. Margaret Hawke stared up at the iron grey sky through the hold vent and tried very hard not to miss the farm too much and keep from losing the scant amount she'd eaten for breakfast.

And Carver was, of course, complaining. "I'm and sick and tired of being on this Maker forsaken boat."

"So are we all, Carver," Aveline muttered leaning her head against the base of the mast.

"I'm sick and tired of hearing you complain about being on this Maker forsaken boat." Hawke scuffed her feet against the damp wood. Hopper whined and rolled over on his back, asking for a tummy rub. "I know, boy, you're tired of it, too."

"The way you spoil that dog..." Leandra muttered.

Hawke didn't bother looking up. "He's not a dog. He's a mabari."

"He's a dog. He's just a smart one." Bethany smiled, and rubbed his tummy, earning a tail thump. But it wasn't quite what he wanted. Hopper whined and nudged Hawke's knee with his nose.

"I swear you pay more attention to that dog than your own family." Caver's voice was the ugly tone he usually reserved when he wanted to pick a fight with her. Hawke just didn't have the energy.

"Perhaps because the dog is grateful." Aveline muttered without opening her eyes. Hawke ducked her head to hide her grin. Any appreciation would just fan the flames of his ire and much as he needed to be taken down a peg, she really didn't have the energy. Her dreams had been troubling last night. She'd recognized the signs of having wandered into the Fade. She also remembered an especially persistent demon that kept trying to ensnare her by pretending to be her father. She felt Beth lean her head on her shoulder and entwine her fingers with hers. _Maker thank you for sparing her_, Hawke prayed, briefly.

She shook off the memory of the bizarre dream. Dwelling now would just invite the demons back the next time she closed her eyes. She wanted, badly, to go up on deck and feel the wind in her hair and the sun on her skin, but the captain had made himself abundantly clear: no refugees on deck. So, she sat down with her back against the hull, Bethany next to her, and scratched Hopper's ears as he flopped down between them, his tongue lolling happily. He didn't care where he was, as long as his tummy got rubbed.

The time below decks dragged. The captain allowed them all up on deck eventually, after it seemed that the worst of the storms had passed. Hawke hoped the ability to stretch their legs would help everyone's foul temper. Carver was, of course, first up on deck followed by their mother. Beth went with her, listening gravely to Leandra's litany of complaints about how terrible the boat was. Hawke rubbed her forehead. She was sure by the time Beth was on deck, her mother would find a way to blame them being stuck in the hold on her. She and Aveline hung back, letting a few of the other passengers go first, Hopper panting happily at the prospect of fresh air. "Get away from her! You sniveling, lying sack of pig shit!" Meeting Aveline's eyes, she then turned to see what the yelling was about. A much larger man shoved a smaller one away from a young woman. "She don' need you, see?"

"Tom!" The girl clasped her hands around the bigger guy's arm. Hawke couldn't tell if she was trying to restrain him or hang on for dear life. "Tom, please! Don't hurt him! He was only asking about -"

"I don't care what he was askin' about!" The big guy roared.

"Now, wait just one second -" The smaller guy finally piped up in a slight accent Hawke couldn't place. "I haven't done anything wrong -!"

Hawke took a step toward the group when the bigger guy grabbed the skinny one by the shirt. "Now, listen here you slimy, little..."

"Excuse me," she interrupted. "I can't help but overhear all this trouble. Is everything all right? Do I need to get the bo'sun or perhaps the captain?"

"You ain't gotta get nobody!" Tiny - the nickname she'd given to the bigger man - snarled. Hopper growled a warning and she waved him back. The last thing they needed right now was a cry of "Vicious dog!"

Hawke put her hands up. "Ok, ok... can you put him down, then?"

With a snarl, Tiny dropped the skinny guy on his ass. "Fine... but keep this nug-humper away from my wife!" Tiny stormed past, his wife hanging on to his arm. She mouthed a grateful, _Thank you!_ over her shoulder.

Aveline helped the smaller man to his feet. "Thank you, Serra...?" He prompted with a smile and a raised eyebrow.

"Vallen. This is Hawke." The taller nodded her head to Hawke.

"Thank you for coming to my rescue. I had no idea that woman was married!"

Hawke glanced at Aveline who rolled her eyes. "Did she tell you to go away?" Aveline asked.

"Well, yes." The thin man's eyebrows rose and his eyes widened.

"Then you should have left her alone." Anger flushed through her in a raging fire and she could feel her face heat in anger. It took a great deal of self-control to not punch the slimy guy's face in. Hawke pointed out and turned on her heel to go above deck, Aveline ahead of her, Hopper between them.

"But all I was doing was being nice!" Hawke stopped, a retort on her lips, but Aveline beat her to it.

"It doesn't matter how nice you are. If someone says go away, you go away."

Hawke looked over her shoulder at the man who was now scowling, "If I catch you being 'nice' to someone else before we get to Kirkwall, you'll deal with me."

"You can't -"

She turned fully towards him, her hands balled against her sides, trying to control her temper before she started leaking magic all over the deck. She heard Hopper's quiet growl start up in his throat.. She'd run into too many like this man in Lothering. A lot of them were trying to be "nice" to Leandra. And then to her and to Bethany. "Watch me."

"Hey, wait a minute," the man said, grabbing Hawke's elbow. Hopper's growl got louder and the big dog started to push past her. With one hand on Hopper's head to keep him from ripping the guy's throat out, she turned and looked at the man's hand and then back at his narrow, pinched face. Something in her expression, or maybe it was the hulking mabari, must have frightened him because he let go and took a step back.

"I don't know where you're from, but you do not touch a Fereldan woman without her permission."

"I just... thanks." The man swallowed and looked down at the deck flooring.

"Don't mention it," Aveline answered, her heavy boots climbing the steps to the deck. Hawke gave the jerk one last glare and followed her friend, Hopper following slowly, casting baleful glances behind him at the "friendly" man.

They'd just reached the top of the stairs when people began pushing past them to get back into the hold. Carver, Bethany, and mother were in the first group. He jerked his head at Aveline and reached past her to grab Hawke's arm. "Another storm. But we're almost to port."

She nodded and gave one last look at the darkening sky before heading back below decks. Carver nudged her at the same time that Aveline peeled off to sit with Leandra, Beth beside her. "What's his problem?"

Hawke glanced in the direction Carver indicated. Skinny guy was glaring from her to Tiny and his wife. She couldn't decide who he looked more pissed off with. "Oh, him. He tried to get real friendly with a passenger. Her husband took exception. I interfered."

Carver raised an eyebrow, "Can you ever just leave people to solve their own problems?"

"Can you ever stop judging me?" She demanded, glaring back.

He stopped for a moment. "That's not judging, sister. One of these days, helping people is going to get you into serious trouble."

She snorted and crossed her arms. "What am I supposed to do? Let them kill each other? Get us all locked down here indefinitely if the captain takes exception to someone's violence?"

He frowned. "At least wait till I'm there to back you up."

"Hopper and Aveline were there," she told him, rolling her eyes. "I had quite a bit of backup."

"You really trust her that much?"

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"You just met her and her husband sacrificed himself for Beth. I'm surprised she's not wanted revenge."

Hawke glared at her brother. "You have a nasty, suspicious mind."

"No, sister, I've been paying attention."

Carver was glad to finally get off the boat. The stench of the unwashed refugees, trapped in their own mess for weeks on end, the damp decking, the rotting fish smell of the hold, he was certain he'd never stop smelling it all every time he inhaled.

And then his worn boots scuffed onto the stones of the Gallows and he inhaled Kirkwall. Humidity, more dead fish, more unwashed bodies, with the undercurrent of rotting food suddenly made the hold smell like heaven. He felt someone pound on his back and finished moving forward up the gangplank. "You make a better wall than a doorway, Brother," Margaret muttered behind him.

He glanced down and back toward her, "Shouldn't be so short, sister."

She glared at him, "Just get out of the way." She shoved past him, Mother and Bethany following her. Beth shook her head at him. The mabari bounded after both. He shook his head as Aveline joined with him.

"A lot of energy, your sister."

"Very exhausting."

"She and your mother are a lot alike."

He stifled a laugh, "Never tell either of them that."

She had to laugh in response, "No, I don't suppose that would be wise." The two of them caught up to Hawke in time to see her turning away from the guard, a murderous look on her face.

"Uh-oh. Now what?"

"We're all scum and dog-lords and they're not letting anyone into the city unless they have business here." His sister looked angry enough to call down lightning on the whole city without breaking a sweat. Fortunately, she had better control than that. He caught a spark shoot from one hand before she clenched her fist. Bethany took her hand and held it in both of hers, rubbing the back of Margaret's hand with her open palm. It seemed to be a soothing trick the sisters did for each other to help get their emotions under control when their magic threatened to overwhelmed them. It usually worked rather well.

Usually.

She pulled out her hand out of Bethany's and spun on her heel to head deeper into the Gallows, the shadows seeming to swallow her up. Only the torch light glinting off her red hair leading the way. Mother, Beth, and Hopper scrambled to follow her and he and Aveline followed at a slower pace. Truth be told, he was finding it difficult to function in the humidity. He felt as if his sweat wasn't even bothering to dry, just puddle in his boots.

"So, tell me, Carver, how did your family escape Lothering? Almost everyone who hadn't fled..."

Carver turned to look at the red haired woman, "My older sister. If she wasn't with us, helping us and the refugees, getting Mother and Bethany out of the house, I don't think we'd be here."

Aveline frowned. "But, you seem quite skilled as well. You wouldn't have been able to do that?"

Carver shrugged, turning his attention back to trying to find his sister in the gloom of the Gallows amidst the crowd, "I'm not my sister. She... pushes. And gets people moving, even when they don't want to."

The soldier's voice was wry, "So I've noticed." Carver shook his head at himself. He'd not spoken so glowingly of his sister in quite some time, he realized. He hated giving her credit for her talents because they so often eclipsed his own. He should, he knew, just be glad for her and love her and appreciate her. But, he was smart enough to know that he had talent and capability as much as any man. He just... didn't have as much as she.

And it bothered him. But, what he'd said was true. He'd never have gotten his mother and sister out on his own. Nor would he have distracted the Darkspawn enough to let the refugees get away. It was all Hawke. All Maggie. He couldn't keep the scowl off his face as he finally caught up to her.

"What?" She asked, concerned.

"Nothing." It came out surly, short. He was really not proud of that. Beth stepped on his foot. Hard. He stuck his tongue out at her.

"Fine." She turned back to the guard she'd been arguing with, but the heavily armed men that had surrounded them wearing what looked like tattered Ferelden army uniforms started shouting at the man and then attacked them all. Without thinking, Carver's sword was in his hand and he was back to back with Aveline, his sisters doing what they could using their staves mundanely with Hopper hamstringing anyone he could get his teeth into. Fortunately, Hawke and Bethany kept their magic under wraps and didn't once use it, just beat the attackers the traditional way. Father had always said a good staff could take out anything short of an expert swordsman if used properly. Good thing both of his sisters had paid attention to those lessons as well. _And good thing these idiots were far from expert._ He finished off the last archer and wiped his blade with the fellow's tunic.

He walked back to find Hawke wiping the blood off her face with a rag Aveline had handed her, she passed it to Bethany who made a face, then used the side Hawke hadn't. "Three days. Three bloody, Maker-forsaken days while he tries to find Gamlen." She sighed. "At least he's actually going to look instead of sitting on his arse hoping Gamlen wanders down to the Gallows for tea and cakes."

"Well, you did save his life." Aveline pointed out. "Those men would have attacked him sooner or later. Whether we were there or not."

"True, they really didn't look like they were taking 'no' for an answer," Hawke drawled.

"So... how do we hide you two under the Templar's noses for three days, Maggie?" Carver asked.

"Idiot," Hawke hissed at him. Bethany stared at him open-mouthed as if he'd just done something colossally stupid. After giving an apologetic look in Leandra's direction at her sharp scowl, Hawke gestured them all over to a quiet corner. "Look, we can control ourselves. We've had a lot of practice. Just... don't be an idiot and say the 'm' word, all right?"

Aveline glared at him, too. "_I_ won't say a word, Hawke." The soldier unslung her sword and shield and threw herself down to sit on the stone and lean against the wall, her weapons close at hand.

Leandra just shook her head at her children and went to see what she could find for food. Carver unslung his sword and followed Aveline's example while Hawke paced up and down in front of them. His sister was never still. Ever. Beth looked from Carver to Hawke to Leandra. "I'm going to help mother." Hawke nodded. Bethany kissed her on the cheek and followed their mother. Sometimes, it was startling to realize his oldest sister was actually shorter than both of them. He leaned his head back against the stone.

Three days. Maker, it was going to be a long three days.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: **

_Employment Opportunities_

Joining Athenril's crew had been a mistake, but the only decision they'd been able to make at the time given their options. It had been over a year of long hours, dangerous work and the Templars had barely been kept away by the smuggling crews' bribes. Athenril had rolled her eyes and laughed when Hawke had expressed a concern about bribing Templars. "The good thing about addicts is, they always want more of what they're addicted to." But, even despite the pay-offs, Hawke and Bethany had had to duck behind Carver's broad back more often than either one would have liked, drawing a cloak tight across their shoulders or up over short-cropped copper hair, or tucking long brown hair into an even deeper hood. To add insult to injury, this last month had been a load of excuses and, "Just one more job, I promise," out of the elven smuggler.

"This is the last job, right?" Carver demanded, pushing the shallow-bottomed skiff into the reeds. Margaret Hawke widened her stance as the tiny boat rocked when it hit the water. She settled cross-legged into the bow to steady the craft as her brother leaped in after her with a smooth, practiced motion. She felt a bit naked without Hopper, but the mabari war hound didn't do well in small boats. Bethany had tried to come, but at the last minute, Mother found reason after reason for her youngest to remain home. In the end, Bethany had relented and bolted the door behind them as they left.

"I promise. Last job. We're actually being paid for this one." Margaret grinned as the sunset light showed Carver's eyebrows raise into his hairline.

"Surely not by Athenril!"

"Of course not. Payment on pickup. We give her twenty percent for a finder's fee."

Carver groaned. "It's up to twenty percent now? Why is she even bothering to pay us?"

"Hey, I talked her down from fifty!" That seemed to set off a coughing fit from her brother. "What? I was very charming!" A sharp pinch in neck followed by another alerted her to the fact that they'd reached the beginning of the marshes. She slapped at the insects trying to make a meal out of her neck and wished she'd worn her hair down. She'd begun growing it out these last few months and it was finally long enough to tie up. Much to Mother's relief.

"Can't you do something about these Maker-forsaken insects?" Carver demanded, making the small boat sway as he waved his free hand energetically at the cloud of bitemes they'd just floated through.

Margaret pulled the hood of her cloak up and took up the second oar; maybe if they both paddled, they'd get out of the muck faster. "Sure, and every Templar in a hundred miles will come and investigate."

She ignored Carver's muttered response, but she was pretty sure it involved the words delicate, mage, flower, fucking, and Templars. She looked back at her brother and winced as she felt the boat jerk when he violently slapped at one of the annoying insects. "I hate the Wounded Coast," he muttered. "Who wounded it? Another bloody mage?" She rolled her eyes and gave in, casting the tiny insect repelling spell she'd thought up as a child, the mana expenditure minimal. Hopefully the Templars wouldn't notice and turned back around. She didn't bother casting it on herself. Once was enough of a risk. She could heal herself when they got back to town and her magic got lost in the general fog of escaped apostates and Mage Circle use that seemed to pervade Kirkwall.

She resisted the urge to slap at another sharp pinch on her forearm. Hawke hoped they arrived at the rendezvous point soon. The swiftly dimming twilight was bringing the bitemes out in force. Pulling in her oar, she unpacked the small lantern and deftly struck a tiny flame with the flint and tinder they'd bought. She felt stupid doing it, but there was no way she was going to risk even enough mana to light a lantern, not after the bug repellent spell.

"Thank you," came the sullen response when he realized the insects had left him alone.

"You're welcome."

"How much farther?" The oars kept up their steady splash in and out of the water. She had to hand it to her brother, he was certainly strong. She barely needed to help. Though, she reasoned, she might need to reserve her strength for the trip back when Carver was tired and the skiff's population had increased by one.

"Another five miles or so? We're headed for the beach on the other side of that outcropping then about a mile inland." Hawke settled the oar back into its housing.

"You have got to be kidding. We have to walk after this, too? In the dark?"

"You afraid, Carver?"

"Bloody hell, Maggie, shut up! I'm tired is what I am! You could help, you know!"

She turned slightly to look at him. "Lower your voice!" She hissed. "You know how sound carries over water!" He ducked his head guiltily and glanced around. "I figured I'd row back. You know, when we have a passenger? And you'll have to look out for _interference_."

"Oh. Okay. Um. Good idea." For once, he shut up. She strained her eyes in the gathering gloom, watching out for obstacles in the water the skiff might fetch up against as well as attempting to keep track of how far away the rock outcropping was. It wasn't unusual to sit silently in a boat, heading for a rendezvous with her brother. After all, the entire point of smuggling was to not get caught. But, they usually had Beth or others in the boat with them to mitigate their usual tension. He wouldn't ever come out and say it, but she knew some part of him blamed her somehow for their circumstances. And not a single part of her disagreed with him.

Carver was someone she always found it difficult to sit in silence with. Except when they were working. Somehow, the rivalry and the animosity faded into the background and all that mattered was the job. She tensed, a light shown in the distance, almost where they would land the boat. "Do you see that?"

"Yes. Andraste's knickers, why can't anything go right for once?" The soft splash of the oars lessened slightly as he let the boat glide silently. Hawke crouched lower in the prow and tried not to overbalance the vessel as she peered ahead. Carver gently steered them closer to the limestone cliffs until she could reach out and touch the rocky walls. They still radiated the heat from the summer day and felt warm against her hands. She pushed against the wall, helping Carver to avoid bumping the cliff face, the rough surface scraping her fingertips where they emerged from her gloves she'd cut the ends off of.

The light grew brighter as they neared and gently splashed up against the reeds lining the narrow beach. Voices accompanied the light. "Yer 'informant' lied! There ain't no mages here," a male's voice spoke loudly into the night.

"They're meetin' 'ere. All's we gotta do is be quiet, you nitwit!" another voice hissed loudly. The light was suddenly snuffed.

Hawke looked back over her shoulder at her brother. "Damned bounty hunters," she whispered a lot more successfully than the idiots attempting an ambush.

"How the hell did they know? Maker take Athenril and her crew! I knew it was only a matter of time before one of those assholes tried to make a profit off you." He whispered back, his youthful features twisted in anger. Hawke knew if he wasn't rowing, his hand would be the on hilt of the huge sword on his back.

"We're leaving the crew. It'd make sense. Athenril wants one last pay off from us and you know the mage bounty's higher than whatever we're getting from this job." They'd reached the shallows now. She carefully jumped from the boat with ease, no more than a small splash to give her away.

"Be careful, sister, they'll have magebane." Carver followed her lead and also jumped into the water and helped her anchor the skiff to a bush clinging precariously to the cliff face. Dragging it further in would only alert the bounty hunters to their presence. It was going to be difficult enough to wade to shore silently.

Of course, that was before someone lit up the twilight with a lightning show. The goosebumps on Hawke's arms and the sudden chill down her back could only mean a mage was involved. Without checking to see if Carver followed her, Hawke sprinted through the water, splashing without regard for the noise. Her heart pounded in her ears and an icy lump formed in her throat as fear goaded her forward. Could the unknown mage hold them off? Would she be in time to rescue them? _To the Void with mage hunters!_

She pushed her way to shore through the reeds and stumbled up and over a small dune, her heart pounding. She crested the dune in time to see two men, one taller than the other, standing back to back, surrounded by a group of what could only be described as thugs. Both men were fair haired, though one was taller than the other. The taller one, dressed in shabby robes, was responsible for the lightning. "Great. Another mage," Carver groused.

Hawke just glared at her brother before throwing herself down the other side of the dune, readying her own fire spell. The thugs were disorganized and showed no discipline and no experience at fighting together. The shorter fair haired man wielded a pair of blades that flashed in the frequent pulses of lightning as he took out one bounty hunter after another. Problem was, there were far too many of the ragged, scrawny men. Hawke swallowed her sympathy for their desperation as she parried a wildly swung sword blade with her heavy staff. They were attacking a mage for the bounty, after all, and would do the same to her if given half the chance. _Kill or be killed, _she reminded herself. Her staff connected with someone's head with a bloody, wet-sounding impact and he fell to his knees and then tipped over. She spun, looking for more opponents. And found only the two strange men she and her brother had rescued. Both were looking at her speculatively. She could guess what the elf was thinking and she grinned. Bowing with a flourish in his direction, she drawled, "This rescue is on the house. I'll have to charge for the next one."

The elf bowed in return, spinning his glowing green sword and dagger with its lightning rune back into their sheaths on his back. "And I would gladly pay. To whom do we owe this delightful removal from the proverbial fire?"

Before Hawke could answer, Carver stepped forward and interrupted. "Hawke. Our name's Hawke. I'm Carver," he nodded, still slightly breathless from the fight, in his sister's direction, "that's Margaret."

The other fair haired man grinned. "A beauty and a fellow mage. Zev, tell our friend that Kirkwall may not be the terrible exile she was afraid it would be." A bit of gold glinted in the man's ear in the fading light of the sun.

The rogue laughed. "She will not be surprised." He looked around at the bodies. "I assume there will be looting?"

Hawke frowned, glanced at her brother, both of their noses wrinkling. "Why in the Maker's name would we do _that_?"

The man with the earring laughed. "New to adventuring, I see." Systematically, the rogue and the strange mage set about riffling the dead men's and women's pockets and even checked for jewelry.

Zev straightened up, rubbing out a kink in his lower back. "I do, however, draw the line at checking for gold teeth." He'd gathered a small pile of items at his feet.

That drew a shudder from the mage. "There are some things that just aren't worth the pay-off." His pile was a little larger, but it might have been less discriminating, Hawke thought.

"Um, were either of you the person we were hired to bring to Kirkwall?"

The mage raised his hand. "That would be me."

"And you are?" Carver demanded.

"It's best we don't get into names, don't you think?" He began stuffing his pack with the smaller items he'd gotten off the bodies. He handed the few usable weapons to Carver. "Here, a down payment. Sell them or use them. They're of no use to us."

Carver glanced at Hawke who gave a one shoulder shrug. "He's right. They'd certainly fetch a decent price. As long as we don't sell them all to the same merchant."

The fair haired mage straightened up, lifting his pack. "Thank you, Zev. Give my regards to our friend."

"I will Ser Mage. Stay out of trouble." The elf winked. "Well, do not do anything _I_ wouldn't do, at least." The rogue clasped Hawke's hand and brushed his mouth over it, a grin playing about his full lips. "Serra, it's been a pleasure to fight by the side of one so gorgeous, and so deadly. But alas, love and duty calls. Fortunately, love makes duty sweet." The elf bowed again and took off at a sprint, blending quickly with the oncoming shadows of twilight.

"Shall we be going?" The strange mage asked, his lips twisted in a wry, yet sad grin as he watched the elf disappear.

"So you're really not going to tell us your name?" Carver demanded.

The man pulled a deep hood over his head, hiding his face. "I think the less we know about each other the better." He handed Hawke a heavy pouch. "Here is the half promised now. The other half is yours when you get me to Darktown."

"Darktown!" Carver exclaimed. "No one said anything about having to set foot -"

Margaret Hawke held up her free hand, the other still holding the pouch of coins. "Darktown. No questions asked. As Ser requests." She inclined her head. "If Ser will follow us?" She turned and walked quickly, aware that the stranger hung back, letting Carver catch up to her.

"Maggie, what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking of the future. As should you be." She rewrapped the end of her staff in its concealing leathers. "And food. Gamlen's larder's empty again. The only thing I found in there this morning was cheese that wasn't supposed to be moldy." She wrinkled her nose at the remembered stench. "Now, c'mon, before we have to pay the Carta to get back into the city, too." Lightning arced in the distance, followed by the low rumble of thunder. As one, all three of them looked north to the horizon to find a wicked-looking squall headed for the coastline and the city. Hawke sighed. "And before we get caught in that. And in the morning, we're going to have a chat with Athenril when we give her her 'fee.'"

On the way back, she joined her brother in rowing, cursing the sore muscles she would have in the morning.

* * *

><p>Cullen stepped off the gangplank and onto the stone dock and did his best not to breathe a sigh of relief. He hated ship travel, his stomach was still churning. Correction, he hated traveling in the hold. As he recalled, the <em>Siren's Call<em> had been pleasant. However, remembering his first sea voyage and Isabela would just bring him blushing to his new duty station. He nodded to the captain who'd begun overseeing her cargo unloading, and shouldered his modest pack.

Of course, thoughts of Isabela reminded him of the real reason he was here. Moira had found him, a month after he'd left Amaranthine. Before he'd been sent here.

_"You haven't left for Kirkwall, I see." She'd stormed into his office with no preamble, the Grey Warden chainmail with its Griffon Rampant emblazoned on her chest. It looked like light mail, but he knew it was stout heavy plate disguised to only look that way. The Warden Commander knew far too many tricks. He'd sparred with her in full armor before. _

_He looked up from his report, he didn't bother to get up. She frowned on it and he was no longer her bumbling recruit. "There've been delays as you well know." _

_She rubbed her forehead. "Yes, I know. Bloody Stannard and her bloody damned stalling tactics." _

_He'd frowned. "Why are you so intent on my getting there anyway? Is your pet already in trouble?" _

_Those wide cerulean eyes glared him and her pointed ears twitched. "Anders hasn't even gotten there yet. I have other sources of information in the city, but none of them are reliable. The refugees from the Blight have started to trickle back here and the rumors they bring are… worrying." _

_He stood at that. "What rumors?" She crossed her arms and shook her head, looking up at him. He was struck, then, by the dark circles under her eyes. They showed on her fair skin like bruises. "What's wrong, Moira?" _

_She shook her head again. "Just… get to Kirkwall. I want your fair and honest assessment. You've seen the worst of mages. I'm afraid I've asked you to go where you're going to see the worst of Templars." _

_He'd crossed his arms over his breastplate, raising an eyebrow. "I thought it was my idea to go to Kirkwall?"_

_She'd merely smiled that impish half smile that once made his knees weak when they'd both been so very much younger. Now, it just made him sad. He shook his head as she turned on her heel and left his office._

His orders came through from Val Royeaux fairly quickly after that conversation. Next thing he knew he was on what was essentially the slowest boat out of Denerim and trying very hard not to get seasick. Once again, he missed the _Siren's Call_. He spared a brief smile for the Captain of that vessel and sent a prayer to Andraste that the woman was safe, not letting himself think further on his memory of that ship.

"Ser Cullen Rutherford?" A young recruit, probably barely old enough to shave, came to a hurried stop in front of him. A flush colored the young Antivan's dusky skin from his sprint and he was trying not to gulp in air.

"Yes?" Cullen reminded himself to stop slouching while he ignored the young man's attempt to catch his breath. It made the plate dig into his rib cage anyway. He drew his shoulders back. Straightening his posture had the misfortune of scaring the page, however.

The young man visibly swallowed, his cheeks turning a shade more pale. Inwardly, Cullen sighed. _Had he ever been that young? Maybe. Once. Before Uldred._ He hid the involuntary fist his hand made at the thought of the name. "Ser? Welcome to The Gallows? Ser? Knight-Commander Meredith? Would like you to follow me? Ser?"

Nodding, Cullen swung his single pack up over his shoulder and followed the page. He tried not to be too obvious about looking around, but the Gallows was built to intimidate. A shiver ran up his spine a the statues contorted in postures of weeping and agony. He followed them upwards to find more statues, looming over the entrance, their faces covered. What little he could see of the carved visages gave the impression of screams of agony or despair. Or both. And this was where they housed their mages?

As much as mages needed to be controlled… wasn't this excessive?

He'd heard the Veil was thinner here in Kirkwall. Moira had informed him of that much, at least. Did that mean they were that much more dangerous? He brought his eyes back down to watch where he was going before he tripped over the page. Instead, he trod on the foot of someone else entirely.

"I do apologize. Excuse -"

Blank brown eyes under the Sunburst sigil denoting a Tranquil stared up at him. The short, elven male merely bowed his head, with his palms flat on his legs, and stepped out of the way. "It was my fault, Ser. Please excuse me."

"Uh-" Cullen blinked, not quite sure how to take the sudden obeisance. Tranquil were peaceful, yes, even docile. But, this was unusual. He turned in time to catch a sneer on the page's face directed at the Tranquil before the young man could wipe it away. "What was his crime?"

"Crime?" the young man asked as they started walking again. "I'm not sure. I haven't been here very long. It was a mage, they get up to all sorts of stupid -"

Within two steps, Cullen had the young man by the upper arm and turned him around. "Are you or are you not a Templar recruit?"

The boy straightened. "I am."

"And don't your vows say to protect mages as well as to protect those without magic?" The boy's eyes were darting everywhere but at the senior knight's face. "Well?" Cullen was aware they were attracting an audience.

"Then you would do well to keep that in mind. The moment you forget to respect your charges is the moment they turn on you!" He released the boy. "Now, take me to the Knight Commander."

"Yes, sir." The boy didn't dare glare at him, but he caught some disapproving frowns from his audience. All mages needed to be watched. They couldn't be trusted. He believed that. His nightmares reminded him every time he closed his eyes. But that boy?

When he'd been sent to Kinloch Hold, he'd been required to know who every Tranquil was and why they wore the brand. Were there really so many they didn't bother? His eyes sought out and found the former mages, now, walking around the small market, weaving in and out of the refugees. Their stiff gait and blank faces making them stand out. Either Kirkwall was a much larger Circle than Kinloch, or they had far more troublemakers thanks to the rumored problems with the Veil.

Either way, meeting Knight Commander Meredith Stannard would be interesting. He nodded respectfully to the crowd that hadn't disbursed, holding each challengers' eyes until they nodded back out of habit, at least. This should be interesting. He followed the page who was now all but running through the gates and into the tower, protocol be damned. _Maker preserve me_.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6:**

_Walking Alone_

The Gallows continued to live up to its name as the page led him through the imposing stone corridors. Some effort had been made to lessen the harsh austerity of the Templar corridors at least. Tapestries hung at various intervals, most depicting battle scenes from Andraste's life. He had to pause at one, though, and squint. From the colors, it was the newest and cleanest. He tried very hard not to laugh. It showed Alistair, of all people - he corrected himself, _King_ Alistair, plunging the sword into the head of the Archdemon while a small group of adoring women looked on, one of whom was distinctly a dark-haired elf. He covered his mouth and stilled his reaction, filing it away. It had to be here to teach how the truth could be twisted.

Had to be.

The page stopped before a heavy wooden door and knocked once, then stepped aside at the terse, feminine tenor, "Come in." The page bowed to him, but instead of opening the door, spun on his heel and sprinted in the other direction. Cullen shook his head and shoved on the heavy wood, entering to an office painted a brilliant white as if neither dust nor dirt would dare sully the walls. Very little adorned the bare plaster. Seated at the neatly organized desk sat a pale-haired woman, her blue eyes scanning the top page of a stack of reports, crows-feet at the corners of her eyes the only indication of any sort of age.

He came to attention in front of her desk, chin up, eyes forward, arms stiffly at his sides. "Knight Lieutenant Cullen Rutherford reporting as ordered, Knight Commander." For a few silent minutes, she kept reading the report in front of her. Sweat began to pool under the heavy plate. The sea breeze had masked it before, but it was dreadfully humid in Kirkwall. The close confines of the oppressively tidy office just made it that much more apparent. A bead began to trickle down his temple and a random thought skittered across the back of mind, _Moira wouldn't ever make even a servant stand like this. Moira also lacks discipline,_ a more critical side of him pointed out.

_There's discipline and there's unprofessional._ He argued with himself. _All right, point. The report might be urgent? Maker, I hope so. _After what seemed an interminable period where he felt as if his armor had become an oven, the Knight Commander looked up and regarded him steadily from her chair, ice-blue eyes weighing and measuring. "Ah, the Warden-Templar." He knew better than to speak. He watched her watch him and tried not to wonder how she knew that. "Assuming you are here to be a _Templar_, Knight Captain, your quarters will be in the East Wing. We are a little overcrowded at the moment, given the situation at Starkhaven, so you will be sharing quarters with your executive officer, Knight Lieutenant Samson."

_Situation at Starkhaven?_ He blinked, then swallowed around the sudden twist in his gut and the pulse racing in his throat, "There must be some mistake, I'm a -"

"I know what you were, Knight Captain. Someone with your experience, your training, and your ability should have been promoted after the incident at Kinloch Hold, not sent off to run errands with the Hero of Ferelden and his elven mistress." Cullen felt like he'd been dumped in ice water.

"Ser, if I may, the Hero of Ferelden _is_ the 'elven mistress,'" he pointed out.

She stood to her full height. There weren't many women who could meet him in the eye directly, the Knight Commander was apparently as physically imposing as she was in aspect. He resisted the urge to step backward and held still, tightening his fingers against each other where they were clenched behind his back. "One: here, unless you are addressing a fellow Dog Lord, we use the Orlesian form of address. But _I _am always Knight Commander. Two: never correct me again. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Knight Commander." He clenched his jaw, grinding his teeth.

"Before you find your quarters, introduce yourself to the First Enchanter." She picked up a small bell and rang it. A door that had been disguised as part of the wall opened and a pretty blond human in mage robes emerged, dimples showing as she smiled briefly at him before she dropped her eyes and bowed her head to the Knight Commander, waiting silently.

"Elsa, take the new Knight Captain to see Orsino."

The girl dropped into a curtsey and Cullen blinked. Surely she was at least an Enchanter. Why was she running errands? And curtseying? "Yes, Knight Commander. Right away. Knight Captain, if you'll follow me?" The mage executed a precise turn to her left and walked around him to exit the door he'd entered through. He nodded his his head at the Knight Commander who wave him off in dismissal, already turning back to her reports.

"Oh, and Knight Captain? After Orsino, I'd like you to take over as Master of Recruits and Junior Initiates. Elsa will take you to your new office and quarters once you've introduced yourself." Startled, he turned to look at her, but she'd already dismissed him. Blinking, he followed the fair-haired mage from the office.

"Is she always like that?" He asked the older woman.

Blue eyes widened in alarm and she looked around hurriedly and shook her head rapidly. Cullen wasn't sure if she was denying his question or warning him against asking it in the first place. He frowned and followed her. Not for the first time, he wished Moira were there. Hell, Zevran might have been more useful. Or Alistair with his Templar training. Someone to tell him what was going on.

He straightened his shoulders. No. This was _his_ posting. _His _job. No one else's. He was here to do the Maker's work and he didn't need anyone else to tell him what to do or how to do it. As he'd always done, he'd let the Maker guide him. It was time he stood on his own two feet. His resolve set, he followed the mage through the door she held open.

An elderly, balding elf stood with his back to the door in front of a desk piled high with books and scrolls. A young woman seemed to be sobbing into his arms. "Messere?" Elsa inquired.

"One moment, Elsa." He held the young woman at arm's length and Cullen stepped to one side, respectfully waiting at his ease. The man was doing his job, after all. "Kaitya, you must return to your studies. I will see that the young man is reassigned."

The brown-haired young elf woman looked up at the older elf with a tear-stained face. "But First Enchanter! He's been reassigned! He somehow always still -!" Cullen felt his stomach twist.

"First Enchanter?" Cullen cleared his throat. Whatever else was going on, if this was truly what she was implying - and he was more than willing to believe her, mages did not make that accusation lightly. "Might I know this young man's name? In my new duties, I could take a personal interest in someone who interferes so much with young mages."

The First Enchanter turned, his arm protectively around his charge's shoulder. "You'll have to forgive me, ser..?"

"Knight, uh, C-Captain Cullen Rutherford." The title still felt odd to his lips. "I just arrived today. From Kinloch Hold."

The First Enchanter's eyes widened, then narrowed. "Welcome to The Gallows, Knight Captain. I see you've met Elsa. I assume you've reported to the Knight Commander?"

"Yes, First Enchanter. And received my duty assignment. I'm to be head of Recruits and Junior Initiates. If this Templar falls under my purview, perhaps I can… discuss his behavior with him. At length." He couldn't really help the snarl he put into that last part. Few things set him off faster than Templars who pushed their status with mages. It was the entire reason he and Moira - _there is no 'you and Moira' and there never will be so shut it, she's happy where she is._ And for that, he could be glad.

Orsino's eyebrows rose. "For once, I actually believe something will be done. You'll leave Kaitya out of it?"

Cullen looked at the young woman, from her to Elsa, whose blue eyes were wide. _You have _got_ to be joking. What kind of a place is Meredith running?_ "You have my word. Even if I find myself unable to reassign him due to _circumstances_ beyond my control," he looked at Orsino, steadily. He'd grasped that much just walking through the courtyard. "This young man will find himself far too busy to cause trouble for anyone."

"Kaitya, I believe you should return to your studies, now. Elsa will escort you and then return for the Knight Captain. I think he and I are going to have an interesting discussion."

All in all, it was certainly an educational meeting with the First Enchanter. While the only charge Cullen was willing to take at face value was that of Templars, male and female, it seemed, pressing advantage upon their mage-born charges, between Orsino's coded and cleverly disguised warnings, Cullen felt as if he'd been dropped into a viper's nest. When Elsa came to retrieve him, it was nearing sunset and his stomach rumbled, reminding him that his Grey Warden appetite, at least, was still going to remain unabated. He spared a brief thought to his lyrium cravings, but those had been absent for quite some time.

He followed the cheerful mage, who, now that he seemed to have taken a side in the politics of this place as far as she was concerned, chattered at him about schedules and rotations and where to find what. He listened with half an ear, knowing he'd remember it all later, but mostly trying to remember what Jowan had told him before he left about the cravings.

"_It'll be a few weeks before you'll feel them again, you know," the sallow mage had pointed out._

"_What do you mean? I thought I was done." Cullen had frowned, glaring at the man as he gathered his meager belongings._

"_That's not entirely true. Moira and I… we've been helping your symptoms." Jowan looked everywhere but at Cullen._

"_Maker's breath, Jowan, spit it out." The Templar straightened up and crossed his arms._

"_We've been keeping you from the worst of it." Jowan said in a rush._

"_You mean, you two have been healing me before I could experience withdrawal symptoms?" Cullen remembered wanting to be angry. He still wanted to be angry. But he'd seen lyrium withdrawal. All he had really felt was gratitude. When Jowan nodded, warily, he chuckled, "Don't look so frightened. Lyrium withdrawal can be deadly. Thank you. To both of you."_

"_You may need to find a Healer in Kirkwall." _

"_I probably will. I doubt I'm over them entirely."_

"And the mess will be around the corner from the barracks, but straight down the hall. The last large set of double doors on the left. Just follow the noise and the smell of burnt meat." Elsa stopped in the hallway and turned to face him, gesturing.

"Wait, burnt meat? The food is that awful?" Cullen looked at the mage doubtfully.

She smiled, a dimple flashing in her cheek. "Oh, it's truly terrible. Some of the Templars manage to find meals outside of The Gallows, but we mages, well… we must pay our penance." She winked.

Involuntarily, he chuckled. "Well. Is this-?" He gestured at the rough-hewn wooden door.

"Oh, yes! My apologies, Knight Captain!" She knocked on the door and a gravelled voice called out a command to enter. "Knight Lieutenant Samson, I'd like to introduce your new Knight Captain, Cullen."

The Knight Lieutenant was a tall man. Rangy, not quite as broad as Cullen himself, but had the reach on him. He was clean-shaven, even as late as it was. Cullen resisted the impulse to run a hand over his own stubble that always seemed to grow in sooner than it should. Samson's dark hair was neatly groomed and trimmed, even in the humidity. "Ser," the other man said, coming to attention.

"At ease. Thank you, Elsa. That will be all." Cullen turned to put his pack with his spare armor, the set Moira had given him months ago, in it on the floor in order to stow it under the only other narrow bed in the room. As he straightened up, he caught Elsa handing something to the Knight Lieutenant in the reflection of the small shaving mirror standing on the bureau at the foot of the bed. When it seemed to only be a scrap of paper Samson pocketed before Elsa bowed her way out of the door, Cullen decided to keep silent.

He straightened up. "So, Knight Lieutenant, I've been told the mess is a terrible place to eat."

* * *

><p>Moira sat up in a chair in her office, wondering if she had done the right thing. She was manipulating people, her <em>friends<em>, like chess pieces and asking them to risk everything for her while she sat safe and secure in Vigil's Keep. She tensed as the slightly rusted hinges of her door creaked. The sound of a familiar set of boots on the stones of the floor allowed her to relax. She glanced at Perrin who'd only twitched an ear at the newcomer. "Lazy assed dog." He was getting old. _Yet another thing to worry about_.

She stood and greeted Alistair with the simple expedient of throwing herself into his arms. He stumbled backward since she hit him mid-stride and they hit the door as he laughed. "I should sneak up on you more often if this is the greeting I get." He lowered his lips to hers, kissing her hello.

No matter how often she kissed him, Moira's reaction, though slightly dimmed from the first time due to familiarity, remained the same. Her knees went weak, her head spun, and she always wanted more. She entangled her fingers in his sweat-soaked hair and kissed him back with interest, slipping her tongue in between his parted lips to caress his. She still pulled away first, though. He looked at her, eyes wide and breathing a little heavy. "Is everything alright?"

She wriggled until he set her on her feet. Her mind racing, despite the thorough kiss, she spun and started pacing. "I sent Anders to Kirkwall. Zevran should be on his way back from escorting him right now."

"And?"

"And nothing. I'm using him. I'm using him and using Justice and I hate myself for it." She turned back to look up at the King of Ferelden. "And I'm using Cullen."

His eyebrows tried to climb into his hairline. "And that has what to do with anything, my love?"

"I sent him to take care of Anders." She sighed and stood in the middle of the room helplessly clenching and unclenching her fists. "I'm using all three of them. Not only am I putting in danger a fragile man and an easily manipulated spirit, I'm asking one of my oldest friends to warp his own principles to safeguard an abomination and I played on his sense of duty and brotherhood to do it. All I can think of is, 'How can I use the others? To what end can I put Nathaniel? Will Sigrun help me cement relations with the remaining Legion? Will Oghren be useful as an emissary to Bhelen? Can I use Velanna to recruit more Dalish?' What in the Maker's name has happened to me, Alistair?" She covered her face, unable to look at him. "Even now, I wonder if you being king will help us in some way and if I can get Zevran to send me recruits while he's off slaughtering Crows. Will the Crow I recruited along the way to rescuing you ever find her way here? And how fast can I teach Ash everything she needs to know?"

Strong hands gripped her wrists and gently pulled them down to hold her hands in his. Hazel eyes searched her face. "I won't lie and tell you I'm not bothered by what you just told me. But answer me this question: Do you still love us? Me and Zevran? Ash?"

She blinked up at him, startled. "With all my heart."

"Then remember that. Why are you so worried about Kirkwall, anyway?" He released her wrists and stepped away.

"I've found some disturbing records here and in Soldier's Keep that indicate several very large problems are buried in and beneath that city." She ran her fingers through her hair, and turned to her desk to find the ancient scrolls. "The parchment is practically crumbling, nothing was done to preserve it, even if it wasn't very old, but everything points to some serious problems on the horizon. Not to mention that with the highest concentration of mages in the Free Marches and the thinning Veil thanks to that bloody Tevinter Empire, I have a very bad feeling about that city."

Alistair took the parchment from her thin fingers and scanned the cramped text. "My Tevene's a bit rusty, Moira. What's it say?"

She rolled her eyes, "It's Old Tevene, actually. And from what I've been able to piece together, there's something locked up underneath Kirkwall that we really don't want getting out."

"Another Architect?" His eyebrows climbed again.

"If we're lucky."

He leaned back on one leg and crossed his arms. "I take back what I said. I'm not worried. I'm bloody grateful. Andraste's knickers, Moira! You may be using everyone, even yourself, Love. But you're doing it to protect Ferelden and all of Thedas."

"That thought's not really helping me sleep at night."

He grinned at her and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. "I can think of one way to cure that. We'll get Ash dinner, work on her lessons for a while, get her to bed, and then, well, we'll work on your insomnia."

She smiled up at him. "Is that a promise?"

"I swear it."

* * *

><p>Fenris, the name he was given, the name he hated, the only name he knew, crouched in the shadows, watching the house. The strange party made up of the two red-haired human women, the tall, dark haired male warrior and the blond dwarf had entered only a short time ago. Tension coiled in his stomach. The slavers had set this trap rather clumsily; dangling information about his family, if such a thing existed, out as bait. He had no choice but to spring that trap. Especially if there might actually be information there. <em>What if there was a wife? A child? A lover? What did I leave behind?<em> It hadn't occurred to him there'd been anyone or Danarius would have surely used them as leverage. But now? Could he take that chance?

And so, he found the shifty dwarf, Anso. For the last of his gold, the beady-eyed surface dweller promised to find someone competent to spring the trap. Anso said one of the red-haired women came highly recommended. Hawke, was the name, if he recalled. Probably the taller one with the shield on her back. Though they all seemed to be listening to the shorter, curvier, prettier one with the staff.

A boot scraped on stone. The slave takers were preparing an ambush for his decoys' departure. He counted at least ten in the courtyard hidden in various places in the alienage. However, there were reinforcements coming up the stone steps right now. Silently, he drew the large blade that hung on his back. Keeping to the shadows as only the ink-black armor he wore allowed him to; he crept along on bare feet.

He managed to surprise the first one. He flared his lyrium, feeling the white-hot flame ignite throughout his body and with one smooth, forceful motion, shoved his fist into the man's chest and crushed the beating heart within. A strangled sigh and the warrior collapsed at the elf's feet, never having drawn his blade or otherwise made a sound.

The elf was already moving onto his next target. But the archer had spotted him. He dodged the poorly aimed arrow and dove for the rogue, the large blade scything through the air, bisecting the flimsy bow, and impacting the unarmored neck of the archer. Blood fountained and the thug collapsed. The others were dispatched similarly and quietly.

Noise alerted him to his decoys fighting in the alienage. He smirked. From the sounds, the decoys were holding their own. One last idiot to dispatch. Two slashes, one across the gut, one on the upper thigh and he let the man stumble toward the courtyard.

Of course, there was still their chief. Fenris approached his decoys from behind the slave taker, watching the small group for their reactions. "Your trap has failed and your men are dead. You have one chance to leave now and run back to your master."

Of course, they never took his advice. But when the idiot called him a slave, well, he had only two replies for that. He heard a gasp behind him as he allowed his rage to fuel his lyrium and punched _through_ the man's chest this time, not even bothering to crush the man's heart this time, just shatter it on impact. "I am no slave," he told the twitching corpse.

"That's a, uh, interesting trick." Fenris turned, expecting the throaty contralto to belong to the tall warrior. The shorter red-head with the staff, her hair pulled up into a tail, had stepped forward. Wide, bright green eyes traveled from his head to his toes and back up. He had the feeling she could now describe him in detail with her eyes closed.

"Ah, thank you." He bowed his head slightly, "I apologize. When I asked Anso for a distraction, I had no idea they would be so… numerous."

The pretty red head pulled full lips back in a wide smile and he found himself smiling back. "Don't worry; we do this sort of thing often."

"Fight thugs in back alleys?" He couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice.

She winked, "Rescue handsome men from ambushes."

He was so shocked to be flirted with, his laugh turned into a cough. "Er, impressive." He cleared his throat. "My name is Fenris. These men were bounty hunters from the Tevinter Empire, seeking to retrieve a magister's lost property. Namely myself." He watched with interest as the redhead's smile faded into a thunderous scowl that did nothing to mar her beauty. "They were attempting to lure me into the open, crude as their methods were. As you can see, I could not face them alone. Thankfully, Anso chose wisely." He paused as she cocked her head at him. "However, he only told me the name Hawke and to look for a red haired woman. Might I know..."

She smiled again and he found himself giving another answering smile. The tall dark-haired man behind her rolled his eyes and threw up his hands. "I'm Carver Hawke, the one you're smiling at is my older sister, Margaret Hawke. The tall one is Aveline, the short one is Varric. Can we _please_ discuss why everything Anso said to us was a lie?"

He found it a little difficult to tear his eyes away from Margaret Hawke to look at her much larger brother. "Not everything he said was lie. Your employer was simply not who you were led to believe."

The taller woman shook her head. "This makes no sense. If you couldn't fight them, then why not just run. There is no shame in a retreat."

Fenris shrugged. "There comes a time where there is nowhere else to retreat. When you must turn and face the tiger. I've grown tired of running."

The dwarf stepped forward and narrowed his eyes. "That seems like an awful lot of effort to find one slave. Does this have something to do with those markings?"

Hawke stepped closer as well; her eyes focused on his, though, not the markings. "I imagine I must look strange," Fenris began, uncomfortable under the sudden scrutiny.

"'Strange' wasn't the word I was thinking of, no," she was still smiling, but with her head tilted. A lock of hair had escaped confinement and curled across her brow.

He raised his eyebrows, he was hesitant to ask what the word was she was thinking of was, "I didn't receive them by choice. But they've served me well. Without them, I'd still be a slave."

The one named Aveline snorted. "Well, Anso's job did seem a little too easy."

"I apologize if the deception was unnecessary. Perhaps, I've gotten too accustomed to hiding." Hawke was still looking at up him. There weren't a lot of human women shorter than he, even if it wasn't by much.

"If they were really trying to recapture you, or kill you, then I'm happy I - we- helped," she brushed the hair out of her eyes, but it fell right back, making him revise his estimation of her age downwards. Not that it mattered. He wasn't even sure how old _he_ was.

He ducked his head, but kept his eyes on hers. "I - I have met few in my travels, in my flight, that have sought anything more than personal gain. If I might ask, what was in the chest? The one that was supposed to lure me here?"

The dwarf chuckled. "It was empty." He dropped his voice, perhaps forgetting elves have better hearing than humans, "I couldn't write shit like this!" Fenris blinked.

Hawke glared at the dwarf, before turning back to him. "Were you expecting something more?"

"I shouldn't have, I suppose. It was bait, nothing more."

"All that for an empty chest," the brother, Carver, groused.

"Not just yet." He brushed past Hawke, his bare arm brushing against hers with a startling shock. He froze, expecting it to have been the lyrium, but no, just the shock of the touch of a pretty girl. He bent and rifled the chief idiot's pockets and belt-pouch. But even thoughts of a pretty girl couldn't stand up to the sort of rage that simmered deep inside when he found the guard's token. "It's as I thought. My former master accompanied them to the city. I know you have questions. But I must confront him before he flees." He met Hawke's eyes. "I will need your help. One more time."

Aveline stood with her arms crossed. "It sounds like you intend to do more than just talk."

Fenris knew who was speaking, but his eyes never left Hawke's. She seemed to be taking note of everything everyone said, her arms crossed under her bosom and her mouth turned down into a frown of thought. "Danarius wants to strip the flesh from my bones and he has sent so many hunters that I have lost count." He couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. "Before I escaped, he kept me on a leash like a qunari mage. A personal pet to mock qunari custom."

"That son of a -" Hawke's eyes flashed in anger.

"So, yes. I intend to do more than just talk."

The shorter woman's eyes were narrowed in anger. "If it means fighting more slavers, I'll help you."

Aveline sighed. "If it means more breaking and entering. And well… murder, no matter how just, I think the less I know, the better."

Hawke nodded. "I understand, Aveline. Will we see you at the Hanged Man, later? Beth should be there."

The tall woman chuckled. "I'll go guard your baby sister from the miscreants, Hawke. You go rid the world of a few dozen more slavers. Try not to make too big of a mess the Guard has to hear about it, please?"

Hawke grinned. "Yes, Messere." She turned back to him and hooked her arm through his, familiarly. It took a great deal of willpower not to flinch away from an expectation of pain. After all, she wasn't going to hurt him just holding his arm. "Take us to your former master, so that we might educate him in the error of his ways. Forcibly. By beating him him with his spine." Her smile turned predatory.

Fenris found himself returning her rather bloodthirsty expression. Maybe Margaret Hawke had been the right person in the right place at the right time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: **

_In the Naked Light_

The demons were a bit of a surprise. Though one Fenris should have expected, given who they were after.

The indoor lightning storm was a larger surprise. Electricity arced through the once grand, shabby foyer, shooting through the flaming rage demons, the icy shades, and the grabbing spectres. A fireball shot from behind him and impacted a shade he hadn't had time to get his guard up for, staggering the thing and allowing him to cleave it in two. Given that it was impossible for the dwarf to use magic and the tall human male was standing next to him, hitting the otherworldly beings rather competently with a large two-handed blade, that left the beautiful, red-haired woman he'd been flirting with. His stomach twisted and fell into the soles of his feet and bile coated the back of his tongue. Somewhere in his chest, it felt like he'd ripped out his own heart. When the last demon in the room collapsed into a pile of dust, he wheeled on her, his blade still out.

Her green eyes widened in alarm and she backed up as he advanced. "Fenris, what - what's wrong?"

"It never ends!" He stalked her. One step forward for every step she retreated. "It follows me, wherever I run! I escaped a land of dark magic only to be hunted by it at every. Single. Turn!" He held up the arm without his sword, her eyes followed the gesture. _She's a mage, no sympathy! _He reminded himself._ She'd just as soon spill your blood for her own gain as breathe!_ "It is a plague burned into my flesh and my soul. And now I find myself in the company of yet. Another. Mage. I should have realized what you really were." He wanted to grab her and shake her. He wanted to hurt her before she hurt him. The rest of him wanted to pull her against him and kiss those full lips until they bruised and wrap his fist in her hair and pull her head back to bare her throat to his teeth. _She will destroy me!_ He breathed in deeply to still the rising rage and panic. He felt rather than saw her rather large brother come up behind him. "One more step, and my hand will go through her heart."

"And my bolt will go through yours, elf," the dwarf told him. He kept one eye on her, and kept them in his peripheral vision, over his shoulder.

Hawke broke their stalemate by grabbing his hand and to his astonishment, and her brother's shouted protest, "Maggie, no!" put it over the left side of her chest. He could feel her pounding heart beat there beneath his palm. The soft tissue of her breast was far too close. He swallowed and met her jewel green eyes. "So what am I, really?" Were there tears? _No! It's a trick!_

He froze. He had no answer. In his rage, he hadn't actually expected any of this. The staff-calluses on her palms that no magister would ever let grow felt rough against his lyrium-scarred skin. Her short, blunt fingers trembled where one hand clenched his wrist and the other pressed his metal-gauntleted hand flat. "What manner of mage are you? What do you seek?" His voice sounded rougher to his own ears than he wanted it to.

A tear actually did fall from her eye to trail down her perfect cheek. _No, no sympathy!_ "I don't know. What do you think I seek?"

His hand was still flat on her chest and his lyrium was beginning to react to her mana, his skin heating, from her hand outward. _It didn't matter._ "You are skilled. I can tell that much." _Powerful._ He leaned closer. _Maker, her hair smelled like orchids and jasmine and orange blossoms. That just was not fair._ "But even the best intentioned mages can fall prey to temptation. And their power becomes a _curse_ to inflict upon others."

The young man finally spoke up. "If you have a problem with my sister, you have a problem with me."

"Carver, shut up. Thank you, but shut up." Her eyes never left Fenris' face. "I have lived with this all my life. Hiding and running. I am an _apostate_, Fenris." He knew what that meant for her, here in the south. A death sentence, maybe. Imprisonment, if she was captured. And still, she held his wrist and his hand, using him to pin herself against the wall. She leaned her head closer to his. "I _know_ what temptation is. It's _whispers_ in the dark. It's voices _begging_ me to let them in. Promises of power beyond my wildest dreams, if only I'd give up, give in, give them everything I am. Give up my self, give up my body, give up my soul. It all there, if I wanted it. It's there every time I close my eyes." He stared at her, uncertain why she was telling him this. Mesmerized by that contralto voice. Her green eyes flicked over his shoulder to her brother and back to his face. "And then, my own brother will have to take my life himself if I wake up and I'm not me. That is, if I or Beth don't kill him first. Because if I fell, she'd soon follow, too."

She pushed off the wall and shoved his hand away. She paused next him, close enough to reach out and put his arms around her or simply shove a blade between her ribs. He wasn't sure which he wanted. They hadn't found Danarius, not that he expected to do so any more. She looked up at him, that lock of hair, falling into her eyes. "So do not stand here and lecture me about what terrible things magic does or the dangers of temptation. The evidence has been seared into your skin by a man so evil I cannot even fathom his existence. But don't you _ever_ mistake me for something, some_one _like him. I would die before I ever give in to that sort of evil. There is no power worth harming another living person, or even an animal, like that to get." She looked him up and down, tears drying on her face. "If I ever meet this man…. I won't beat him with his spine. I'll leave that privilege to you." She started to walk away. "Carver, Varric, whether this asshole is here or not, we cannot leave these demons in possession of this mansion, preying upon whoever wanders by. Broody, here, can help if he wants." Fenris blinked at the improvised nickname. _Broody?_

"What about it," the dwarf smirked as if considering something, _"Broody_?" the dwarf asked, the crossbow still aimed in his direction.

Fenris looked at Hawke. Her shoulders and back were straight against her staff. He tried very hard not to also pay attention to the curve of her ass in the tight-fitting trousers. He closed his eyes and let out a breath. "I do not brood."

"Whatever you say, elf." There was the boots scraping against tile and when Fenris opened his eyes, the dwarf was at the door to the next room with Hawke's brother, waiting.

Hawke looked over her shoulder at him. "Are you sure? I may have to use magic to heal you."

Fenris couldn't stop the involuntary shiver. "If it becomes necessary."

"I'll try to be gentle," she told him, her voice flat and wry, her full lips tight in anger. He sneered at her as he passed to take point, catching the scent of her perfume yet again. He tightened his grip on his hilt. At least he could take his frustration out on the demons.

Unfortunately, the rest of the demons and the traps did not take long to clean up. His frustration and anger at accepting assistance from a mage, no matter how beautiful the package, still bubbled under his skin. "I'm sorry, Fenris," Hawke actually apologized.

Startled, he stopped short and turned toward her. "For what?"

"That we did not find him. It seems rather cowardly of him to have set up all these traps and demons in the hopes of killing you just to collect your corpse later." She was frowning up at him. The urge to grab her and kiss her until she couldn't stand upright any more was at least not accompanied by the urge to harm her. Maybe some of his frustration had gotten worked out.

"Not to mention a poor business decision," the dwarf pointed out. "No offense," he said, scratching his head.

"None taken," Fenris drawled. "To be honest, I'm not sure I understand, either. Unless he fled because I brought back-up. Perhaps he, too, has heard of the legendary 'Hawke's' reputation." He raised his eyebrows.

The mage laughed. "What lies have you been telling now, Varric?"

The rogue slung his crossbow across his back and laughed. "Oh, the usual. You charm Templars with your beauty, have the criminal underworld completely cowed… oh! And have the ear of both the Black and White Divines."

Hawke laughed so hard she had to lean on a wall. "You're so full of shit, Tethras!" Carver rolled his eyes and pushed the main door open for them all and they spilled out into the quiet Hightown night, shattering the silence with Hawke's continuing laughter.

"You love me and you know it, Hawke," The dwarf grinned, his brown eyes scanning the courtyard for threats, much as the human warrior had already begun to do, despite the mage's distraction. Fenris had to admit, it was a welcome relief to work with a group of people who were eminently capable.

He readied his own blade again, and Hawke put her hand on his shoulder, causing him to turn to look down at her. Eventually he might get used to that. If he stayed. The thought was alarming. "We're going to the Hanged Man. If… if you have nothing better to do, you're welcome to join us."

He glanced back at the mansion behind them. It was, in fact, the only other place he could go. And there was nowhere to sleep at the moment. It would take some work before the place was remotely habitable. And that wasn't something he felt like dealing with at the moment. He met Hawke's eyes and tried not to drown in them and strangled the urge to push her up against the wall, pinning her hands above her head and kissing her until she either electrocuted him or her brother ran him through. "I'd like that."

* * *

><p>Hawke trailed behind, letting the men walk ahead. She looked up at the gibbous moon that was just now beginning to crest the mansions of Hightown and shivered in the slightly cool breeze off the bay. She watched the elf, surreptitiously. He slouched as he walked, hiding his height, his shoulders tucked in as if to hide their breadth.<p>

But none of that actually hid a damned thing. He carried that huge sword on his back like it weighed nothing. She knew they weren't as heavy as they looked, but from how Carver bitched, it did get tiresome eventually. Of course, Carver's hobby was bitching.

She wasn't sure, exactly, what alerted her. The scuff of a boot behind her. A random cough. Steel clearing a scabbard. "Son of a bitch!" She swore and reached for the Fade. Fenris must have felt her through his markings, he was already turning, his hand going to his blade.

"Hawke?" Varric called.

"We have company!" She yelled back. And then, she was far too busy to pay attention to anything other than trying to keep herself alive. She was dimly aware of Carver, Varric, and Fenris with her mediocre healing ability. But none of that mattered when she needed a damned fireball. Summoning one to her hand, she threw it at an advancing swordsman who caught it with his face and fanned the flames hotter as he panicked and ran screaming. "One down…," And then two more were on her and she was forced to use her staff as an actual staff, the steel shaft deflecting their cheaper blades, sparking in the twilight. She kicked the male one in the balls as hard as she could and dropped his sword and fell gasping to the pavement, retching.

She finally was able to get enough distance between herself and the swordswoman to throw a bolt of electricity at her, but was suddenly knocked off her feet and into the woman's blade by what felt like a wall impacting her back. "Sister!" The blade went clean through her left shoulder and agony flared through her. She grunted with the pain and met the merc's wide eyes. Girl couldn't be more than a teenager. Her left hand hadn't dropped her staff yet, so she balled up her right fist and punched the kid as hard as she could across the jaw. "Damn you, Hawke! Hang in there!" _Thank the Maker for glass jaws,_ Margaret thought as the girl went down in a nerveless heap, though that left the sword stuck Margaret's shoulder. She yanked it out and spun fast enough to block the downward swing of the asshole with the shield, her own blood spraying off the end of her "borrowed" blade. _I'm sure someone somewhere would be impressed. Maybe even me._ The force of the blow knocked her on her ass and she aimed another fireball at her attacker, but his shield went up to block in time.

And then, the guy she'd set on fire came back and he was really pissed off. Margaret was beginning to lose feeling in her left arm so she switched the staff to her right, abandoning the blade. She wasn't as good with it, after all. But she needed room to stand up. She scooted backward, tucking her increasingly useless left arm up against her chest. The burnt asshole reached her before the one with the shield did. He drew a dagger and grabbed the front of her quilted and spelled tunic, hauling her to her feet and got so close to her face, she could smell the ale on his breath. She grasped for her mana and found nothing except exhaustion. He was too close to hit with her staff and she'd have to drop it to punch him. She aimed her knee at his crotch, but he swung his dagger up at her neck. The blade nicked her neck and she felt the magebane almost immediately. Her head felt heavy, her limbs ached, and then the reaction set in. Nausea. Tight lungs. Her throat was starting to close. She dropped her staff anyway and clawed at the rigid fingers as he grinned in triumph. "I'm going to enjoy turning you in for the bounty, _bitch!_" he snarled.

"No. You won't," a graveled voice drawled. The burnt man's body jerked toward Margaret and his fingers spasmed on her constricting throat. His eyes widened in surprise and his mouth fell open. His fingers finally released Margaret and he collapsed at her feet as she stumbled. She sucked in what little air she could get and she met Fenris' eyes, as she nearly fell forward. "Hawke? Hawke!" A steel bar caught her around the waist and pulled her away from the bodies. Booted feet rushing toward her. The sky was suddenly above her.

"Hold on to her!" Carver's voice. "Varric, where's the healing potions?" It was getting hard to breathe. There was a weight on her chest. _Carver, why's there a weight on my chest?_

"What's wrong?" Fenris' had a really sexy voice. Too bad he sounded so angry.

"Must've been magebane. Maker's _breath_, there's a cut on her neck. Deep. She's wheezing. That's good, at least she's breathing. Hold her up. Maker take you, elf, she's not going light you on fire in her state. _Hold her UP_! Varric, did you find them all?" Margaret felt the sky go away and something a lot better than the ground was at least under her head. She twitched her fingers, wanting to claw at her throat. Soft white hair pressed against her right temple. She closed her eyes and let the tears leak out, concentrating on breathing. Thin fingers in a large hand held onto hers, stilling their twitching, tucked back near her hip.

"You're going to give her all of them?"

"As many as it takes. Magebane can kill her. Me, too, for that matter." Familiar fingers grabbed her chin. "Mags, open your eyes, need you to swallow." Glass against her teeth. Foul, minted, icy-hot, acerbic liquid washed across her tongue and down her throat. She leaned her head back, trying to help it wash down. "Another one, Mags. You know one never does it."

"Ugh. Bastard." At least her throat worked now. But her chest was still very tight.

"We both know who my father was. Drink it." This time, she took the potion from him from herself with the hand not being held onto by the mysterious elf. She swallowed it, weakly. Carver moved to throw the vial away and she glared at him. "Fine." He put the empty vial back in the pack to be refilled. "You need another?"

"Probably. I don't really want to throw up." At least her throat wasn't constricted. Her lungs were still tight, though. Felt like she was breathing through water. "I don't suppose we have an anti-magebane, do we?"

"You said it was too expensive," Varric reminded her, sounding amused.

She aimed a glare in his general direction since he was out of her line of sight. "Leave this out of your book. I don't need people knowing I can be killed by a scratch." She turned her head away from Fenris' head and coughed, hard.

Carver held up the last little red vial. "OK, last one."

"Last one totally, ever completely in the bag? Last one I need to take tonight?" Margaret blinked at her brother. "You know… Why do you have blue eyes, and Beth has brown eyes and I have green and Mother has blue? And father has brown? I don't look like any of you. And don't get me started on the red hair."

Carver rolled his eyes, while Varric was biting back laughter. She felt Fenris' shoulders shake behind her. "Take the potion, Mags."

She huffed out a sigh. Really, he was being very difficult. And her stomach really hurt. And the sky was really far away. And her lungs were kinda fuzzy feeling. And her throat hurt. "Why is my shirt bloody?"

"Drink the potion, Mags."

"Fine." She tossed it back like a shot of whiskey and nearly gagged at the taste. She handed the bottle back to her brother. She waved her free hand imperiously. "You should really go through their pockets. They might have replacement vials. Or oh! Gold!"

Varric had crossed to behind Carver when she took the last potion and looked at the corpses doubtfully. "They're 'Guardsman Pretenders,' complete bottom of the barrel thugs. But you never know, we might get lucky. You alright, elf, or should Carver take her?"

"She's already sitting on me. It is probably best if she does not move too much, I should think." Fenris adjusted himself behind her and she giggled at the movement because the buildings danced just a little. "As I said."

Carver frowned. "You coming, Junior?"

Carver shrank before disappearing from her line of sight entirely. "Yeah, yeah."

"He's not going to kill her, Little Hawke." Her brother grunted, his voice further away

"Hawke?" She liked how Fenris said her name, and right by her ear.

"Hmmm?" The elfroot in the potions was finally easing the constriction in her chest. She still had no mana to speak of, though. Not that it mattered. Not if his voice was going to be that close to her ear. She wiggled a little, enjoying the tingle in her spine.

He made an annoyed sound. "I'm going to lean against the building. And stretch one of my legs out."

"Sure." His arm tightened around her middle as he adjusted to a more comfortable position. "Your hair is the color of_ stars_."

He froze. "Pardon me?"

It seemed very important that he know this. She had to tell him. "Your hair, it's the color of stars."

"You're drunk, Hawke."

"Hmmm," she nodded against his chest. Her ponytail was digging into the back of her head. She reached up and yanked out the leather tie, shoving it into a pocket. "Probably. You really shouldn't hold your breath. It makes you turn funny colors. Ruins the whole star thing." She held up the hand he was still holding. "Wish you didn't hate me 'cause I'm a mage. Everyone hates me 'cause I'm a mage." She yawned and put their hands back where they'd been. "I think I'll take a tiny nap."

"That's an excellent idea." He sounded annoyed. But he always sounded annoyed.

She roused enough to stare down at his foot stretched out next to her leg. The lyrium veins running out to each long toe and swirling down to his high arch. "Why don't you have boots?"

"What? I thought you were going to nap." He flexed his toes self-consciously. "Part of Danarius' rules of ownership, I suppose."

"You should get some. City's," she yawned, leaning her head back again, "dangerous. Diseases. Chokedamp. Give you share of earnings. For boots." The word trailed off as she dozed.

Fenris had no idea what to do with a lap full of sleeping mage. Especially one who smelled like orange blossoms and orchids and jasmine and now elfroot. He'd heard of an allergic reaction. Rumor had it that's what his predecessors had died of, those who hadn't died of lyrium poisoning itself. He'd never actually seen one, though. She'd turned far too many unnatural colors for it to be faked. No one can turn blue on command.

And she wanted him to have _boots._

_She's still a mage. It doesn't matter what she smells like. Or how she feels sitting in your lap or holding onto your hand, you idiot._ He let his head flop back against the wall. _Fasta Vass_.

"How's the patient?" the dwarf asked, amusement tinting his friendly voice.

"I believe she fell asleep." "The patient," wiggled her head in a dream and hit his jaw. Hard. "I believe she's having a nightmare."

Her large brother squatted in front of them, laying her staff alongside Fenris' outside leg. "Maggie! Wake up!" He patted her face.

Whatever nightmare she was having seemed to get worse. She clenched her fingers around Fenris' hand almost to the point of pain. "No, I'll not let you. NO! Father!" She sat up, suddenly, leaving him exposed to the chilly breeze off the bay and the rank odor of Lowtown it carried. He wrinkled his nose against the stomach turning stench of refuse and dead fish and almost pulled Hawke back against him so he could smell her hair instead of… _that_. Her shoulders slumped. She looked over her shoulder at him and released his hand, patting it lightly. "Thank you, Fenris." She smiled crookedly, "You made a wonderful pillow."

Inspite of himself, he huffed out a laugh. "You are welcome, Hawke. Try not to get poisoned again."

Carver helped her to stand and she back to wink at Fenris. "Quite. You might not be around to lay on next time."

"Margaret!" Carver sounded scandalized. Fenris shook his head, the woman was grown after all. He got to his feet as the siblings bickered.

"What? The elephant is running down the alley, Carver! Might as well wave as it trumpets!" She started to bend at the waist to retrieve her staff, but almost lost her balance and would have ended up in Fenris' arms again. While he braced himself, her brother was the one who caught her this time.

"Maybe we should go home."

"No! I am not going home to mother like this!" She pushed her thick hair out of her eyes and glared up at the dark-haired man, wrenching her arm out of his grip.

Her brother sighed. "You're right."

Varric picked up her staff and offered it with a flourish and a bow, "M'lady?"

Hawke laughed and curtseyed, taking her weapon. "Milord." _"Everyone hates me 'cause I'm a mage."_ Another lie, she couldn't honestly believe that with evidence like that in front of her. He picked his own blade up and sheathed it across his back.

"C'mon, Beth and Aveline are waiting."

The Hanged Man stank of vomit, spilled ale, stale wine, urine, human sweat and desperation. Fenris tried very hard not to inhale too deeply. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the somewhat brighter lantern light. It was noisy and busy and Hawke followed her brother and Varric to the bar. He settled his sword more comfortably and trailed them, listening to the dwarf and Carver snipe at each other. "You cheated!"

"I did not! Just because you're lousy at cards, doesn't make everyone else a cheater, Junior."

"I am not lousy at cards."

"Carver, _Gamlen_ beats you at Wicked Grace," Hawke pointed out. The mage walked to a corner of the bar, near where a group of thugs appeared to be hassling a well-armed Rivaini woman. Fenris stepped up behind Hawke who held her hand up for him to wait. The half-dressed Rivaini had the thugs beaten and disarmed within a few seconds. He found himself smiling at that.

The Rivaini seemed to notice Hawke. "You're new here."

Hawke smiled. "Sort of. Hawke. This is Fenris." She nudged him in the ribs till he nodded. "The tall scowling one over there is my brother Carver. The cheerful one next to him is Varric."

"Isabela. Previously, Captain Isabela. Sadly, without a ship. Welcome." The dark haired woman jerked her chin at the barkeep for another round. "Better keep your wits about you. You're nothing but tits and ass to the men in this place." Fenris looked from the scantily clad Isabela to the armored Hawke and wisely kept his mouth shut. "And they won't hesitate to grab at both."

Fenris crossed his arms at that statement and felt Hawke put her cool hand on his bare elbow. "Um, thanks for the advice."

"Although, if your pretty friend here looks threatening enough, maybe they'll think twice." The former captain grinned when he couldn't think of a response to that. She looked back at Hawke. "You're Ferelden aren't you? You have that look about you. I was in Denerim not too long ago. You might be -"

"Templars, three o'clock." Fenris felt Hawke jump as Carver stuck his head between them.

"Shit. Here? At this hour? Don't they have a curfew?" Fenris tried to shift out of her way without being obvious. While he generally approved of the way the Southerners handled their mages, locking Hawke up would help no one. _And I'd never see her again. She's a _mage_. It would be better. Shut up._

"Hell if I know. Maybe they're officers or something."

"Find Beth, make sure she _stays where she is_." Hawke's fingers had begun to dig into his elbow. Carver nodded and gave his sister a kiss on the cheek. Fenris was puzzled until he turned to wave at her as if he were saying good-night and heading for his room. _They really were used to hiding in plain sight._

The dwarf came up behind them. "What's the plan?"

"There's no plan, we're just friends in a bar." Hawke released his elbow and turned toward the bar, hunching her shoulders. Varric swung himself up onto a stool beside her.

"Is there anything I can do?" Fenris asked.

She glanced at him in surprise. "Just keep an eye out. I'm going to add whiskey to my elfroot buzz." She motioned for Corff.

"Um, I think your new friend is calling you over." Fenris cleared his throat. The Rivaini had gone to the Templars' table and was leaning on it talking to them. All of them were laughing. The mage hunters were not in uniform, so they had been tough to spot. Apparently, he needed to learn the signs as well as Hawke and her brother did. Hawke sighed and got up.

She shrugged. "At this point, it would be a lot more suspicious if I didn't go." She straightened her quilted tunic. "Varric, it's been fun."

"Oh, no you don't. You're not getting out of this partnership that easy." The dwarf followed her, and Fenris cursed himself for a fool and followed them.

"Hawke! This is my friend, Cullen! He's a friend of the Hero's!" Isabela was beaming as she gestured to the handsome, fair-haired man in higher quality, if plainer armor than usually seen in a place like this tavern. His hair curled in the humidity of Kirkwall, his square jaw set in annoyance, even if his eyebrow was raised in amusement at the rogue's antics. His shield where it leaned against the wall next to him, though equally plain, had seen use and Fenris would bet his next silver the man's blade would be in the same condition.

The dark haired Templar with the sharp nose set his mug down heavily, "Why didn't you mention that! He's the king now, isn't he?"

Cullen rolled his eyes, but Hawke butted in. "Every Ferelden knows the Hero's an elf. A woman. And a mage. And the Chancellor," she'd raised her voice slightly, crossing her arms and looking around.

Fenris wanted to strangle her himself. However someone the next table heard Margaret and raised his own pint, drunkenly proclaiming, "To Fereldan! Where even our elf women are tougher than you Marcher pricks!" Which started a chorus of boos and Kirkwall versus Ferelden pride and neatly drowned out their conversation. Startled, he looked at Margaret. She winked. Maybe she did know what she was about.

Cullen turned his heavily lashed brown eyes toward Hawke as if he'd figured out what she'd just done. _This one's dangerous. He's far too smart._ _This one's dangerous. He's far too smart. _"She's right. I was at the Hero's Harrowing myself. She's very good at what she does. I was a recruit with the King, but I doubt he remembers me. I only barely remembered him myself." Long, calloused fingers with broad palms carefully turned the mug around as the man eyed Isabela.

It was the dark haired templar's turn to roll his eyes. Over the noise, and several impending bar fights, he all but shouted, "Well, then, I'll take my Marcher ass over and get me another damned pint."

When the other man left, Isabela launched herself into the blond man's lap so hard his head bounced off the wall he was leaning against. "Isabela… now is not a goo-"

"Please tell me she sent you here, c'mon! What's going on! It's got to be good!" He grabbed her hands that were prying at his armor.

"Isabela, _stop_. I actually am here as a Templar, not as a Brother. The _Hero_ didn't send me." He looked at her for a moment, waiting for a reaction. Fenris couldn't see her face.

She slapped at his breastplate. "Fine. Allow me to introduce you to _my_ friends, then. Varric, Fenris." She jerked her thumb over shoulder at each of them. Then, she grabbed Hawke by the front of her tunic and yanked her closer and off-balance so that the shorter woman was forced to put one hand on Isabela's shoulder and the other on her bare thigh or risk falling into the Templar as well. "And Hawke." And before either he or Varric could do anything, the former captain was thoroughly kissing the apostate mage while straddling the Templar's lap. When he realized Hawke was kissing her back, complete with tongue, his armor grew rather warm and very uncomfortably tight. He had the presence of mind to glance at the Templar, however, and noted the man was staring at both women, trying to look away, but completely incapable. Maker, the man even made turning red look good. Hawke was definitely going nowhere _near_ this "Gallows."

In a very quiet voice that Fenris wasn't sure he heard correctly over the Marcher versus Fereldan shouting match behind them, Varric muttered, "If I put this in a book, no one would believe it!"

The two women were still kissing, Hawke stood a little more securely. Isabela's hand had migrated from its grip on on Hawke's tunic to run her fingers through the mane of thick, red hair. Fenris clenched his own fingers, his armor growing tighter and more painful. The dark-haired Templar arrived back at the table and stared at the two women as he sat down on the other side of the table. "You have all the bloody fuckin' luck."

"Isabela." Fenris was mildly sympathetic to the crack in the man's voice, though at the moment he was fighting the urge to yank Hawke away from the wench and drag her off somewhere to shake some sense into her or erase Isabela from her lips and run his own fingers through that hair. _Maker, you just met the woman!_ The Templar cleared his throat. "Isabela!"

"Hey, it was just getting interesting!" His companion objected.

The Rivaini let Hawke's mouth go and the mage straightened up, turning blindly toward Fenris and Varric. Her lips were swollen and her cheeks were flushed. She walked toward them, only stumbling at the last second, causing Fenris to catch her around the waist with one arm. She leaned on him, hiding her face with one hand, her other hand on Varric's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Just give me a minute." She ducked her head, and combed her fingers through her curls where Isabela had tousled them. "That woman can kiss!" He tried not to pay attention to the fact that her deep breaths were bringing her breasts into direct contact with his arm. Fasta Vass!_ My armor is getting even tighter. It has been too long. That's all this is._ At least her hair drowned out the stench of the Hanged Man.

The Templar had his hands on Isabela's legs now. "Was that an attempt to make me jealous, or perhaps excite me?"

The pirate arched her back and stretched. "Depends, did either work?"

Cullen smirked. "I think you know me better than whether or not I'll answer that question."

"Spoilsport." She swung her legs off him and stood to go, straightening her corset. Fenris tensed as he grabbed the dark-skinned woman on the upper arm, his paler skin a stark contrast. Isabela leaned down, her eyebrows raised, the other Templar eyeing her cleavage.

"Tits and ass, indeed," Hawke muttered. She'd turned to watch Isabela, but the back of her head was toward Fenris. He didn't know if he was happy he couldn't still see her kiss-bruised lips or not. But she was still leaning on him, making his arm around her waist a necessity. _Probably still feeling the effects of the healing potions. _ Isabela's longer hair hid Cullen's mouth, but it was obvious he whispered something to her. She smiled broadly in response and leaned over and kissed him almost as thoroughly as she'd just kissed Hawke.

"Another time, Tiger." She lightly tapped the Templar under the chin and headed up the stairs toward the tavern's rooms. Glancing over her shoulder, she jerked her head, "C'mon, Hawke."

Hawke shook her head and imitated Isabela, "C'mon, boys." Fenris rolled his eyes and Varric chuckled. Behind them, the rougher sounding Templar was guffawing loud enough to be heard over the incipient brawl. "Tiger!"

"One word, Samson, and you'll be cleaning latrines for a month."

"Yes, sir! Knight Captain Sir! Tiger! Or should I say, Knight Captain Tiger! Hah!"

"Samson…"

Fenris snorted and walked faster to catch up to Hawke, which conveniently put him at eye level with her swaying hips as she climbed the short steps. He stifled a groan. That wasn't what he'd intended. He doubted Hawke planned to get back into Isabela's arms either. As the mage reached the top of the stairs, Isabela grabbed her arm and yanked her to pin her against the wall and leaned. Hawke immediately put her hands up on the Rivaini's shoulders. Fenris crossed his arms and waited. "Where did you learn to kiss like that? I almost feel like I owe you a favor now!"

Hawke blinked. "_That_ was because you were going to ask me for help?"

"Well… I was distracting the Templars because I needed a favor." Isabela straightened up and dropped her hands, shrugging slightly. "The kiss was a bonus." Varric laughed until he had to lean on a wall.

"What is going on?" The red haired woman in the Guard's uniform came out of a suite.

Varric stopped laughing long enough to gasp, "Hawke started a Fereldan versus Marcher barfight to distract two Templars downstairs. If you hurry, maybe you can even get them to help you break it up."

"Templars? No wonder Carver rushed into your suite like a scalded cat! Are you alright, Hawke?" _How could she possibly think no one cared about her because she was a mage?_

"Yes, Aveline, I'm fine. Apparently, we'll need to help our new friend here. Varric? Fenris?" She linked her arm with Isabela's and began to lead her to where he assumed Varric's suite was. The taller red head rolled her eyes and waded into the fray downstairs, her loud voice projecting over the incipient riot.

He thought about following Aveline to back her up, but when he turned to look for her, realized she'd already shamed the Templars into backing her up and was half way to restoring order to Corff's common room. He decided she would not welcome his assistance. And since he'd last been seen with an arm around Hawke, it would probably remind them of her presence.

* * *

><p>It hadn't taken Isabela long to convince Hawke of her need for assistance. She <em>had<em> played up the harassed businesswoman angle a little much for his taste, though, considering Hawke had already agreed.

Of course, a bloody ambush in the Chantry's main sanctuary wasn't something any of them had anticipated. He wasn't quite sure he believed in this Maker or his Bride, but fighting in a place where people worshipped still struck him as wrong. He did object when Hawke asked him to stand lookout at the main entrance with her sister. "No."

"Fenris, please." She stepped to one side with him as the others attempted to clean up the signs of battle. "Just watch over her, we won't take long."

Hawke had been far too close to most of the heavy fighting, her spells did more damage than her sister's, therefore, for Hayder's men, it had been a priority to remove her first. She was still wounded, and still overdosed on elfroot and exhausted from her earlier illness. The minute the magebane had left her system, she'd slung fireballs and lightning and healing for everyone else as if she wasn't on the verge of collapse. _ He could -_ _Don't. Don't trust her. You'll never be free._

"Fine." Irritated, he followed the other mage outside.

He stood impatiently in the center of the courtyard while she leaned against the wall, seemingly just as exhausted as her sister. "Thank you," she told him. "For, you know."

Fenris blinked, trying to remember what she could possibly be thanking him for. There'd been a rogue, attempting to sneak up behind her while she worked the Fade, and he'd put an end to the woman's lethal ambitions fairly quickly. "You're welcome."

Warm brown eyes met his. "Mags told me you don't much like mages. I am sorry, for whatever it's worth."

The sneer crept automatically to his lip. "Very little."

He had to give her credit though, she was undaunted. "The magister put lyrium under your skin?"

"So I was told." _Where in damnation was Hawke?_

The younger mage was somehow completely unfazed by his unfriendliness. "Does it hurt?"

"Yes. Sometimes." _No, never, just don't touch me._

"There's always someone who has to give us a bad name," her tone of voice was sorrowful, she was looking at the ground, her hands together folded in front of her, thumbs playing with a pleat on her skirt.

He turned on her, ready shout at her. But this was Hawke's little sister. "Perhaps that's why Circles were created."

She was prevented from answering by Varric walking out of the Chantry looking backward, laughing. Hawke followed him, her face lit up by a wide smile, her jewel green eyes twinkling. Carver followed, scowling. Isabela brought up the rear and must have done something to the young man because he jumped, moving his hips oddly and looked back at the pirate, his eyebrows drawn together in confusion. Isabela wiggled her eyebrows and grinned before catching up to Hawke and slinging an around the mage's shoulders. "So, what say we all go back to the Hanged Man and celebrate!" The small group started walking. Fenris attempted to keep an ear out for any pursuit or any Guardman Pretenders wanting to imitate their companions from earlier. However, they managed to make it through all of Hightown and Lowtown to the front of the tavern.

Hawke ducked out of Isabela's embrace, a wide smile on her lips and a wink that somehow promised she'd make it up to her. "I thought I could, but… I'm sorry, Isabela. I absolutely have to sleep at some point."

Isabela pouted briefly, then grinned. "I understand." She gave Hawke a kiss on the cheek. "Thank you. You need anything, you let me know. I really did not expect Hayder to have quite so many thugs at his beck and call."

"They always seem to surprise you with the amount of idiots willing to die for their side, don't they?" Hawke responded, her smile widening.

"Good news is, we get to kill them and keep all their stuff!" Isabela flung her arms wide, laughing.

Hawked laughed, "Good night, Isabela. Varric, I'll see you in the morning."

The dwarf squinted. "Not too early, I hope?"

"Maker, no! Besides, these three still haven't decided if they're staying here with you." Hawke looked at her siblings and then at Fenris.

Carver shook his head, "I am not going home. I think I'd rather drink till I pass out here."

Hawke rolled her eyes. "Fine, Beth?" The other mage looked indecisively between her brother and sister. "If it makes you feel any better, Bethany, I just need sleep. There was magebane on a knife tonight."

"Oh. Yeah, I'll stay. If it gets too late… I'll figure something out," Bethany smiled as if she'd been given permission to be out late.

Hawke merely looked like her head hurt as her siblings followed the pirate inside. "Varric?"

The dwarf laughed, "Don't worry Hawke, I've got them."

She bent to kiss him on the forehead. "What would I do without you?"

"Worry a lot more."

"You have that right." The dwarf glanced at Fenris his eyebrows raised. Fenris returned his look flatly. Varric chuckled to himself and went inside. "I can walk myself home, Fenris."

"I have no intention of letting you do that, nor do I intend to join them in drinking," he replied, crossing his arms.

"I have no intention of letting you go to Hightown and sleeping in that dump until we've made it somewhat livable. The demons fouled the well, Fenris. And there are dead bodies everywhere." She crossed her arms as well.

"You're going to be difficult."

"I am."

"You're the most stubborn woman I can ever remember meeting."

"That's because you've not met my mother."

Fenris snorted. "Apparently, I'm about to."

Hawke looked up into the sky, checking the position of the moon. "Hopefully, she's asleep and you'll be spared." She turned, and he almost didn't her mutter, "Hopefully, so will I." She glanced over her shoulder, "Oh, and watch out for my dog."

He glanced her, slightly alarmed. _What kind of dog?_ But, she was already walking away fairly quickly and he nearly had to run to keep up with her. He slowed as they approached an even more run-down section of Lowtown than they'd left. The buildings leaned together as if they couldn't support the weight of their own rot any more. Trash collected in the corners and mud and suspicious stains covered the paving stones, painting them a muddy umber in the moonlight instead of what he assumed should have been the original limestone. He followed Hawke still further up the short steps. She opened the door and bent but was unable to entirely keep the furry one hundred pound missile from launching itself at him. "Hopper! Sit!" she hissed in a loud whisper, but it was too late, the large dog had him pinned against the railing.

"_Venhedis,_ a mabari?" He kept his arm across the beast's throat, not for fear of the teeth, but to keep the drool at bay.

"He's been cooped up all day." Fenris just looked at her from under his brows. Hawke grabbed her enthusiastic dog around his neck and dragged him off Fenris. "Go pee, you fool dog!" With a sharp bark, the animal scampered off to mark his territory. She looked at Fenris. "I'm sorry. You'd never know he's a highly trained war dog."

"The slobber gave him away." He responded dryly.

She raised an eyebrow, and exploded into quiet giggles. "I promise, he's a lot more formidable if you're an actual threat."

"I'll take your word for it," he drawled, letting her go inside first. She still stood at the door, however and when her mabari came bounding back inside, he understood.

"Bed, Hopper," she told the animal in a whisper. The dog bounded off toward the back of the house, nosing through the door next to the fire place. Hawke shut the door, leaned her staff with the odd figure of the nude woman against the wall near it, and crossed the room to a chest. She pulled out a bed roll and handed it to him. She flashed him a smile in the dim firelight. "It's not much, but… well, it's not much."

He took the bedroll, his hands brushing hers. "Hawke. Thank you." Her repeated kindness was wearing away his suspicions of her motives. He couldn't fathom why she would continue to be so generous without an ulterior motive.

"You're probably wondering why I'm being nice," she whispered, her round face tilted up toward his.

He blinked at how closely she mirrored his thoughts. "It had occurred to me."

"Well, we're trying to get the funds to join an expedition into the Deep Roads. The more blades the better, right?" He tilted his head. That was a reasonable request, actually.

"Why the Deep Roads?"

There was a wry twist to her full lips. "Fortune and glory?" She shrugged. "Gets Beth and me out of sight of the Templars for a time. Gets Carver occupied and out of the Blooming Rose for a while. And out of Aveline's jail for defending the honor of his… companions."

Fenris' eyebrows went up. "Does he do that a lot?"

"My brother?" She sighed. "Maker, yes. Honorable idiot. He ends up in Aveline's jail at least once every fortnight over a barfight."

"I'm sorry, I - your brother is…"

"Overly galant? Stupidly protective?" She sighed. "Anyway, we're going tomorrow to speak to a Grey Warden about maps. If you would care to join us? Any job we do, you're welcome to a share. You won't go unpaid. I promise. Oh!" She held up her index finger and bent her head to open her belt pouch. She held out two gold and a handful of silver. "We'll even stop at the cordwainer's or the armorer's and see how long a pair of boots would take." When he didn't move, she took his hand and put the money in it, folding his fingers over it.

He was fairly certain she'd just wildly overpaid him. "That is... very generous."

"Oh, well, there was a bounty on the Guardsman Pretenders, too. So you get part of that. And part of the loot from Isabela's, er… friends." She ran her fingers through her hair and turned toward the hearth. "Go ahead and stretch out here. I doubt Beth and Carver will be home tonight. Varric usually puts them up if they stay out drinking with him. And something tells me that Isabela can really put it away." Absently, she touched her lips. She bent to put another log on the fire and he wrenched his eyes away from her ass.

Hawke turned to go into the room the dog entered. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled. "Good night, Fenris."

"Good night, Hawke." He spread the bedroll out in front of the fire and took off his armor, leaving the black leathers on. He cushioned his head on one arm and stared up at the ceiling, not really expecting to fall asleep in such an unfamiliar place.

To his great surprise, he woke up, shivering. Of course, he had fallen asleep without covering himself with the bedroll. He pulled the top layer out from under himself briefly wondering how long he had fallen asleep for. He was just dozing off when he heard an older female voice call out, "Margaret! It's freezing!"

"Wha-? Oh. Yes, Mother, I'll take care of it." The door creaked slightly as Hawke crept from the room she'd been sleeping in. Fenris closed his eyes to slits, knowing they glowed in the dark, and unwilling to frighten his hostess in case she wasn't aware of that fact. When she emerged wearing a very short and very threadbare night shirt, her hair in a loose braid to her shoulder blades, he almost gave himself away as awake by holding his breath entirely. She knelt in front of the hearth and put two more logs on the fire. Logs large enough he was actually surprised she could lift them. He almost stopped breathing again when the shirt rode up to the small of her back while she was lifting the logs. But if he got up to help her, he'd have to admit he saw her barely dressed.

Then, she did something that truly surprised him. Instead of conjuring a flame, she stood up and stretched for a small box that was almost out of her reach on the mantle, the shirt riding up yet again. He was going to have dreams about her ass in those smalls for _weeks._ She knelt back down and used flint and tinder from the box to coax a stronger flame to life than stirring the coals could get her. He closed his eyes when she moved to crouch over the flames. He would leave her some dignity. When he felt the heat on his face from the rekindled fire, he opened his eyes again and almost groaned. She was entirely silhouetted through the thin fabric of the shirt, her arms raised in a stretch, her back arched. She was sidelong to him, and the shirt hid nothing. The fullness of her breasts, the curve of her stomach, the roundness of her ass, he felt his leathers grow very uncomfortable as all the blood in his body rushed to his cock.

She dropped her arms and he realized as she turned that she might not be very tall, but what height she had was in her legs and they were all muscle. He closed his eyes and bit the inside of his cheek. "Fenris. I know you're awake."

"_Venhedis_. I apologize." He opened his eyes to find her kneeling next to him.

"It is a tad embarrassing. Did I wake you, or did the cold?" He tried to keep his eyes focused on her face.

"The cold. I assume you do not wear that often?"

She looked down at herself. "All the time, actually. I just don't leave the room in it unless everyone's asleep." She smiled. "If you stay another night, I'll be sure to wear something else. Or maybe not." She winked. "Since you've seen everything." He groaned, covering his eyes. "Tell me this, Fenris. Did you at least like what you saw?"

He pulled his arm off his eyes to glare at her. "Are you fishing for compliments, Hawke?"

Her green eyes narrowed and her lips tightened. "You're an ass." She began to rise.

Before she could move further, he snaked his hand out and grabbed her wrist. Turning over and focusing both eyes on hers, he told her, "You are a beautiful woman, Hawke. I absolutely liked everything I saw. But please, get a different shirt."

She leaned closer to him and he struggled to keep his eyes on her face rather than let them watch the collar of her shirt gape so he could look down it. "On one condition."

He realized he was still holding her wrist and released her. "Name it."

"I get to return the favor." A slow smile spread across her face at his shocked expression. _Why in the Void would she want to see_ him? He was still staring after her as she gracefully rose to her feet and turned to go back into her bedroom.

Now he really wasn't going to get any sleep.


End file.
